When All Is Lost
by girlinshipwreck
Summary: When Vivien loses the Doctor, she is forced to fight for survival in a place where death is life and civilization has become a myth. But when she crosses paths with Rick Grimes, she discovers she's not the only one cast adrift by a cruel world. {AU}.
1. Ghost

**Author's Note: **_Videos for this story, including characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel under **girlinashipwreck**_

* * *

**Ghost**

The world has fallen. All is lost. Death has become life. I keep a lonely vigil, my days scarred with death, my nights a torment to be endured. He said he would come back, that he would find me, but I think they will find me first.

* * *

_He stands there before me, my gaze tracing the familiar hunch of his shoulders, the bow-tie at his throat, the way his dark hair flops over his brow. He holds his hand out, _come with me_, but I can't move, I can't breathe - all I can do is stand there and watch him turn and walk away into the dying light, fading from me as always, and I am alone, as always -_

I jolt awake, breath coming in huge gasps, the ridges of my braid digging into my scalp. For a long moment I just lie there, staring up at the swirling patterns on the ceiling, the dream slipping through my fingers like sand. A bow-tie, an outstretched hand... and then it's gone, leaving only a feeling of desolation in its wake instead. Then I jump as dead fingers rattle the doorknob. It's a sound I should be used to now, but I know I never will be.

At first I used to wonder at the sight of them sitting on park benches and at bus stops, echoes of a life no longer theirs. But now I don't care. In a way, I'm the same as them, no longer quite human, yet still clinging to the ghost of who I was. The only difference between us is a beating heart. But one day I'll be like them, out there, wandering what used to be.

I sit up, thoughts flickering in the direction of the Doctor before my consciousness crushes them down. The door handle continues to twist and turn, but I block it out - for the time being anyways. Food first, then I'll flee. I haven't killed any of them yet, which is a stupid attitude to take during the apocalypse, but I just can't. But as each day passes, I become that little bit more detached from the dead. So far I've lost my compassion, my curiosity, and soon I'll stop running and start killing instead.

I pick up my crowbar, weighing its murderous potential in my palm. After the TARDIS evaporated into the ether, the dead dividing the Doctor from me, it was sink or swim. I tried to keep track of where I was so I could stay close to where the Doctor might be, but the dead quickly drove me out of the area. My only hope was that they would drive him out too, to where I was, but until then, I had to stay alive.

Forcing myself to meet reality head on, I kicked in the door of a garden shed, stealing a crowbar so I would have something to break into houses and defend myself with. And now here I am, in a home that's not mine, refusing to face the fact that this is my life now; that I'm more or less on my own, the Doctor gone. The world I left behind fell into fragments in my absence and now there's nothing left to fight for.

_And you'll be lost  
Every river that you tried to cross  
Every gun you ever held went off  
Oh and I'm just waiting 'til the firing's stopped_

* * *

I throw the tin of _B & M Brick Oven Baked Beans_ aside, watching it arc across the floorboards, before rolling to a halt. Then I get to my feet, snatching up my crowbar as I go. In a few quick strides I'm at the window, pulling the curtains aside. I check for them but the backyard is clear - for now. I quickly fling up the sash and climb out of the window, battering my head off the frame in the process.

Choking down a curse, I creep through the waist-high weeds, past the laundry still hanging out to dry and make for the wall. I hoist myself up, just as I did when I was a child, and sit astride the brick as though on a horse, surveying my surroundings. The streets are empty, rows and rows of houses as far the eye can see, easy pickings for the plucking if the dead weren't moving into the neighbourhood.

For a moment, I surrender to the suspicions that stalk my heart, thoughts that turn the day dark. _They're here because of me, hunting me like a predator does its prey._ I swing my leg over the side of the wall before dropping down onto the sidewalk, landing like a cat on the concrete. Then I'm running, running as fast as my feet can carry me.

* * *

Hot sunlight beats down on my bare head. Everything is unnaturally still and silent, the air heavy with death. Then a crow takes flight from the roof of the ruined building in front of me, the beat of its wings breaking the silence. With some trepidation, I edge further and further into the hospital car park, creeping round the corner of the guard booth, fingers tightening around my crowbar as I wonder if it really was such a good idea after all to check this place out. Then my foot slips out from under me, and I'm falling, falling, body slamming into concrete. When I roll onto my side, it's only to find myself face to face with the remnants of a soldier's head, the top of his skull blown off, blood and brains splattering the shoulders of his military fatigues.

All of time seems to slow down, then I glance at the ground, almost vomiting at the sight of guts and gore splattered across the asphalt. I get to my feet, stomach turning. Then I turn around, heart freezing in my chest. I'm caught up in some crazy cavalcade; cars, military trucks, army jeeps, ambulances, even a fire engine, all just abandoned. One ambulance has its back doors half open, the metal stained with crimson.

As I move forwards, the chaos just continues, with rows and rows of bodies wrapped in white sheets, blood staining the fabric like sunbursts. Some bodies aren't wrapped up at all, others not wrapped up enough, their heads poking out of the top, bare feet exposed. I'm surrounded by the dead on all sides. No matter what direction I turn, they're there. The ones that aren't wrapped up hold my horrified fascination captive the most, the sight of their hospital gowns and stethoscopes, jeans and suits, reminding me all too well of a world now gone.

Then my gaze falls upon a small girl, her long fair hair matted with blood. For a moment it's my daughter lying there and something inside me breaks. I careen away from the bodies, the overwhelming stench and heat nearly making me throw up, the relentless buzzing of flies feeding off flesh drilling into my skull. I lurch along the rows, clamping my hand over my mouth, tears streaming down my face. Then I stumble to a halt in front of what was a woman, her face rotting, rendering her features beyond recognition, blood encrusting her caramel coloured hair. The right hand side of her cranium is missing, exposing what's left of her brain, and that's when I finally throw up, hurling all over the tarmac.

As my stomach heaves, the smell of vomit and decomposing flesh making me gag all over again, I collapse down onto the ground, head spinning. The heat is becoming unbearable, sweat dripping down the back of my neck, soaking my underarms. I slump against the side of a garish yellow car, the full enormity of the situation finally hitting me. A tear rolls down my face, then another, and another, and I bury my face in my hands, trying to muffle my sobs in case they hear.

I sit there for a while, hunched against the side of the car, hopelessly hoping against hope for the scraping sound of temporal engines, the rest of me on high alert for carcass-cleaners. Then I get to my feet, legs still shaking with the shock. As I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, they stagger into view on the not so far horizon, the deep blue sky forming a dramatic backdrop, life framing death. Their presence only serves to emphasize the precariousness of my situation, so I move, pulling the neckline of my jumper over my nose, before heading round the side of the building in the hope that's where the entrance is.


	2. To Cross The Divide

**To Cross The Divide**

_My, my cold hearted child, tell me how you feel_  
_Just a blade in the grass, spoke unto the wheel_  
_My, my cold hearted child, tell me where it's all gone_  
_All the lustre of your bones, those arms that held you strong_

I creep through the debris and dead, hiding behind vehicles, second guessing every step I take. Parts of the building have caved in, the brickwork blackened with smoke, with wires exposed and windows blown out. Maybe I'm better off taking my chances out here... I round a corner, only to be confronted by the sight of a fire-exit door lying open. I swallow hard at the sight of it, at where it may lead. But inside there could be food, water, medicine, maybe even a weapon like a fire axe or something. Yet still I falter.

I don't have to go inside. There might be stuff out here I could pillage, even if it means searching through car boots and the backs of ambulances. I think of the dead soldier, how he might have a gun or a knife I could use, but then I remember the little girl, the woman with the caramel coloured hair, and that decides me there and then. I'm not going back, not to that.

Taking a deep breath, my grip tightening around my crowbar, I move forwards, hastily bypassing the three deep pile of bodies dumped unceremoniously next to the rubbish bins. I jog up the steps, kicking aside the autumn leaves as I go, the metal clanging under my feet. Taking another deep breath, I force myself to step into the darkness, letting go of the neckline of my jumper, panic bubbling up in my chest as I do so.

With trembling hands, I close the door behind me, cutting off the light. Then I just stand there, heart hammering in my chest. It's like I'm trapped in the heart of a terrible void, with no way out, an endless maze. The panic boils over and I bolt forwards, only to smack my forehead off a wall, nearly knocking myself out. Clutching my head like a moron, I turn wildly in all directions, my breath suddenly very loud in the darkness, the sound reaching inhuman proportions as it echoes around the walls. Then I crash into a railing, my foot connecting with a step. I stumble forwards before catching myself. I'm in a stairwell; I'm in an effing stairwell.

I force myself to move forwards, my hand fumbling for the rail again. I take one step at a time, trying to be careful, trying to keep calm, but when my foot hits flat ground instead of another step, I stagger and trip like a fool, almost falling onto my face again. I let go of the railing for a moment, trying to work out where I am, whether I'm on some sort of landing or if I've reached the top. I start blundering about, colliding with what seems to be a never-ending series of walls, until I find where the railing starts again. I cling desperately to it, like it's a lost friend.

Then my foot finds the next step, and I'm moving upwards again, tripping and stumbling, holding onto the handrail for dear life. But the darkness is disorientating, the silence overwhelming, and I have to clench my teeth or I'll end up collapsing and crying like a baby again. I keep thinking something is going to grab my hand or my foot, the fear slowing me down, making me move at a snail's pace, even though I want to run, to just get the hell out of here. But if I do that, I'll end up breaking my neck.

Then my feet hit flat ground again, but this time I'm prepared. I just keep going forwards, hands outstretched, searching for the railing or a door handle, before my palms spectacularly collide with wood. I slump against the door, searching frantically for the handle, battering my knuckles off it. But I pass over the pain, my desperate fingers turning the handle. The door clicks as I pull it open, light flooding the stairwell, blinding me. I throw myself through the doorway, panting heavily, before collapsing against a wall, shielding my eyes with my arm, trying to calm myself down.

* * *

After a minute or so, I dare to lower my arm, my eyes adjusting to the light. I'm in a corridor, an abandoned wheelchair lying on its side by some lift doors further down. The sight of it makes my stomach turn, but I steel myself against the sickening sensation. I can't stay here, I have to keep moving. I force myself to put one foot in front of the other, stumbling down corridor after corridor, turning endless corners into even more endless corridors which are lit in patches or plunged into night in others. It feels like I'm caught between two worlds, and I wonder if maybe I've died after all, and I just don't know it yet; that this is my hell.

My footsteps echo through the air, the soles of my trainers squeaking with every step I take. Sweat drips down my spine. The corridors start to merge into one, the floor strewn with rubbish and paper, mingling with broken wall and abandoned medical equipment. I keep walking, feeling again like I'm in some sort of nightmarish maze, and the panic starts to bubble in my chest afresh, as I wonder if I'll ever be able to find my way back out of here.

But as I turn another corner, the landscape changes. Bullet holes start appearing, forming an erratic dancing pattern over the background of the bland decor, accompanied by bloodstains that have dripped down the cheap plaster, pooling into dark sticky puddles on the ground. It's like a breadcrumb trail, leading my thoughts to the bodies outside, my stomach starting to turn again.

I round another corner before emerging into a corridor that splits in two, the left hand side stretching into the dark distance, the right hand side turning in an almost curve, the lights flickering on and off as an odd hum permeates the air, sounding the death knell of the emergency generators. I move forwards a fraction, then my heart jumps into my throat as my gaze falls upon the half eaten remains of a young woman lying on the ground further down the corridor.

She's dressed in blue tie-dyed rags that may have once been a dress, her middle exposed, almost gone, revealing her ribs. Her arms have been reduced to bone and muscle, but as I edge closer, I see her face is almost intact, her delicate features framed by fair hair pulled back into a messy bun, pale eyes wide and staring, boring into me. Again, there's another abandoned wheelchair lying nearby, and I wonder if it belonged to her.

I bury my nose in the crook of my arm as the smell of rotting flesh becomes too much to bear. Then I stumble to a stop in front of the body, half expecting it to spring to life or something, but nothing happens. I kneel down, leaning my crowbar against the wall, curiosity getting the better of me. I study the girl's face, heart twisting in my chest. Then I straighten up, taking off my jumper, pulling it over my head.

I tug down my vest top before studying the Mickey Mouse face on the front of my jumper. It's not ideal, but it's the only thing I've got. There's nobody else left to give her some dignity in death. I stoop down again, holding onto my jumper with nervous hands, but the girl's eyes suddenly and slowly blink. I scream, throwing myself against the wall, jumper slipping from my grasp as the girl's head turns almost mechanically in my direction.

The girl's fingers flex, like she's trying them out for the first time. The movement makes me move; already I can feel her fingertips tearing my flesh. I slide my back along the wall, my eyes staring out of my head as the girl slowly raises her hand, as though reaching for comfort, silently asking me to cross the divide between life and death and bring her home.

* * *

There's a door up ahead. I force myself to focus on it. That's my escape, my way out -

But then the door frame rattles violently, like it's about to come off its hinges. I scream again, throwing my head back as my body jerks against the wall, shock shooting through me. Then I slump downwards, like somebody's cut my strings. Tears blur my eyes, but not enough to blot out the dark outline of a figure standing behind the glass window of the door, its hands raised like Nosferatu's.

But then the flickering light throws the figure into relief, and I see that it's a man, a man who is very much alive. I exhale sharply before slumping further down the wall, all life leaving my limbs. The man starts pounding the glass with his fists, desperate, frantic. I hold up my shaking hands to signal it's okay, to stop banging. He falters, hesitating, before finally resting his palms against the glass, the gesture almost imploring.

"Please help me!" he calls, his voice hoarse, half muffled by the door. I stare at him, caught by the harsh antebellum burr of his accent. "Please!" he shouts this time, beginning to bang on the glass again. "Please help me!" I put my finger to my lips, hastily hushing him with my other hand as I look nervously behind me, expecting more of them to appear in the wake of his racket.

"Please!"

I stagger to my feet, silently cursing the man. Doesn't he know he's going to bring the dead down on us? I half stumble, half rush down the rest of the corridor, bursting through the door, nearly hitting the man, who has to dive out of the way, grabbing his side as he does so. I quickly shove the door shut behind me, peering through the glass at the girl, half expecting to see her gliding over the ground towards us like a ghost in a story. I shiver despite the heat. But she's just lying there, her hand now stretched in the direction of the door, still trying to reach me.

I turn around, pressing my back against the wood. Then I look up at the man, my gaze crashing into his. He just stares at me, eyes wide and frightened. They're blue, almost grey in colour. His skin is pale, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, hair dark and short, clustering in curls close to his head. His features have a carved quality to them, something of kindness adding character to his bearded face, softening the strong curve of his jaw and the prominent beakiness of his nose. He's barely dressed, wearing a blue and white checked, almost tartan-like, hospital gown that hangs off his frame, exposing his hairy chest and the bandage wrapped around his middle, holding padding in place. I wonder uneasily about his wound, if they are responsible for it.

My gaze then drifts over the rest of him, noting his blue boxer shorts, the loose baggy fabric emphasizing the scrawniness of his thin legs. He has something like a name tag around his wrist, and for some odd reason, he's clutching a box of matches in his hand. He studies me in turn, brow furrowing, and I know he's thinking whether he should trust me or not. For a moment I see what he sees, a tallish girl with long jet black hair bound in a messy braid, all ripped jeans and attitude problem. Not exactly somebody to inspire confidence then.

"Is - is she okay?" the man says stupidly, pointing past me at the girl still reaching in vain for me.

"She's dead," I say bluntly.

"What?" he exclaims, backing away from me, stuffing his box of matches into the waistband of his boxers, as though I'm going to steal them. As if. "She's - she's not dead! How can she be dead? She's moving for God's sake! She needs help! Why don't you help her!? You're a nurse, aren't you!?"

"Me? A nurse?!" I snort. "I'm a toilet attendant, pal!"

The man doesn't say anything. He just stands there twisting his hands, his eyes darting between me and the girl on the floor, like he's watching a tennis match at Wimbledon. I nervously chew my thumb, not sure what I should do next. I wasn't bargaining on this. I thought he would know...

"What's... what's with you then?" I stutter, gesturing vaguely to his wound, wanting to know how he got it. "How did you end up in this shit-hole?"

The man's eyes scrunch up, like he's trying not to cry. "I was shot," he says, lower lip trembling. "Fell into a coma. Don't know how long for though. Then - then I woke up. Wandered about the corridors but nobody was there, no doctors, no patients, no one. Then I heard you scream..."

"And here we are," I say dryly, trying to hide my panic with false poise.

"What... what happened?" the man asks, voice cracking. "Where is everybody? Was there a terrorist attack? Has the hospital been evacuated? Was it too dangerous to move me or something?" He looks at me, eyes pleading, silently asking me to give him an answer I can't give; to tell him everything's alright, happy endings all round. But I don't know what's happening myself. The TARDIS flung me headfirst into this world and I've been wandering blind ever since. And anyways, I've already more or less told him the dead are alive, and he's just more or less denied what was right in front of him, so I don't really know what else to say.

The man inhales sharply, trying to steady himself. Then his gaze falls on the girl again, and I step back when I see her trying and failing to sit up. He just stares through the glass at her, his face contorting in disbelief and terror. Then he turns on me, big-time. "Why don't you help her?" he shouts, tears springing to his eyes as he angrily jabs a finger in her direction. "Why - why are you just standing there, doing - doing nothing, man?!"

I fly at him, clamping my hand over his mouth. "Keep your voice down," I hiss. "There could be more of them walking about in here."

His eyes widen at my words. I remove my hand from his mouth, suddenly feeling very tired. He backs away from me, his hospital gown trailing after him. "You're - you're mad," he says, shaking his head. "How can the _dead_ be _alive?_"

"Look, pal," I retort, getting angry now, "quit the broken record routine, alright? The dead are walking, get over it."

A tear rolls down his face and I'm struck by sudden contrition. "I'm sorry, I really am," I plead, "but you have to believe me. This is really happening. The dead really are walking."

But he just shakes his head again, before turning away from me, his fingers fumbling for the door handle, for escape. I dive forwards, grabbing his wrist, trying to haul him back. He tries to shake me off, but I just hold on even tighter. It's odd, but his presence is making me focus, purpose replacing panic. "Let go of me!" he screams before shouting for help, help that will never come. I try to clamp my hand over his mouth again, as well as attempting to pull him away from the door, but despite the two of us not exactly being in tip-top condition, he's bigger and stronger and he suddenly breaks free of my grip.

Before I can blink, he's pulling the door open, slipping like a snake through the narrow gap it affords, before slamming the door in my face. I try to turn the handle so I can go after him, but he's holding it fast on the other side. So I start pushing the door, trying to shoulder it open. But he just starts doing the same thing, and after a few moments of futile struggle, I slump sideways against the wood, still holding onto the handle, determined to the last. And like me, he still holds onto it as well, staring at me through the glass like I'm insane.

Something inside me snaps, and I suddenly thump the glass with my fist, making him leap back like a startled hare. Then the anger leaves as suddenly as it arrived and I lean my forehead against the door, closing my eyes as I do so, wondering why I'm still here, why I'm even bothering. If he doesn't want to believe the dead are walking, so be it. I should just cut my losses and go. There's nothing to keep me here.

_My, my cold hearted child, tell me how you feel_  
_Just a grain in the morning air, dark shadow on the hill_  
_My, my cold hearted child, tell me where it all falls_  
_All this apathy you feel will make a fool of us all..._


	3. Lux In Tenebris

**Lux In Tenebris **

Then I hear it, the tell-tale shuffle of them.

I open my eyes, slowly raising my head, not wanting to look behind me. My gaze falls on the man instead. He looks like he's going to piss himself, which only fuels my fear even further. He slowly raises a hand, pointing past my head, his face almost imbecilic with terror. I slowly turn around - everything seems to be slowing down now - and see almost seven feet of dead body, literally Lurch in the flesh.

He's barely clothed, wearing the tartaned tatters of a hospital gown. He's also extraordinarily bald, with ears protruding out from either side of his head in an extraordinary fashion too. Half his face has been torn off, exposing yellowing teeth in a permanently lopsided grimace that makes him look like he's half smiling, half sulking. Then my eyes meet his blue-white ones and he suddenly springs, a terrible cry escaping his cracked lips.

I dive under his outstretched arms, almost right into the arms of the carcass-cleaner behind him instead. It's a woman with a wild afro, and in trying to escape her, I end up doing a sort of mad twirl. But as I turn, I spin into Lurch and then he's on top of me, teeth snapping at the tip of my ear, rotting hands trying to grab me - then the man shoves the door open, striking the carcass-cleaner in the side, knocking it off-balance.

As it flails comically, the other lunging forwards, the man grabs me by the wrist, hauling me through the narrow gap between door and wall. He slams the door shut, the glass vibrating in its frame. Then we both scream like some unholy choir as the woman slams her face off the still trembling glass, before repeating the action over and over again as the other carcass-cleaner pounds on the wood with his palms.

I just stand there, stricken to my very soul. The man lets go of my wrist, backing away from the door as tiny fissures start to appear in the glass. The sight of it breaking brings me back to life. I holler at the man to run, and as we flee, I glance behind me, wondering how long that door will hold. The man runs at an odd jerky pace, clutching his middle where it's bandaged, before faltering as he reaches the girl on the ground. I skid to a halt beside him, too scared to go on any further, despite the threat behind us. He stares incredulously at her mutilated body as her fingers clutch at the hem of his hospital gown, her mouth opening and shutting in silent hunger.

Then he retreats backwards, tearing his hospital gown out of her grip whilst shaking his head in disbelief, still trying to deny the truth before him. He turn in a half circle, his eyes filling up with tears again, gaze travelling to the ceiling as though asking for divine intervention. I snatch up my crowbar, hands shaking as I do so, leaving my fallen jumper to its fate. Then I inch round the girl, hissing at him to come on.

He runs his hand over his face, taking deep breaths, trying to keep calm. He then edges past the girl as well, glancing back at her over his shoulder as he goes, a fresh tear rolling down his cheek. We head down the rest of the corridor, my mind awhirl with chaos. The only thought that stands out with any sense of lucidity is to go back the way I came, to somehow lead us out of the hospital, but the man has other ideas.

He stops dead, attention caught by the dark corridor to the left hand side, right in the opposite direction I want us to go in. Then he starts heading towards the darkness, meandering pitifully towards something only he can see. I follow him against my will, fingers tightening around my crowbar. We creep through the flickering darkness, my gaze searching the shadows for them. There's debris and dried blood on the floor, a tea-trolley lying abandoned on its side. Plastic seats are lined up against the walls in long empty rows. Parts of the air-conditioning in the ceiling have been pulled out, the units hanging perilously from overhead, panels dangling precariously.

Like before, there are more bullet holes, more puddles of gore pooling on the ground. Doors leading into wards and waiting rooms have been left ajar, as though somebody has just left the vicinity. I keep expecting them to appear in the doorway, my heart stalling in my chest every time. Then we pass through a set of double-doors that are half open, half shut, all askew.

We approach an archway of twisted cables and collapsed ceiling, black coils of metal and wire suspended in midair, forming an arbour of sorts. We duck under the worst parts, eyes riveted on a set of grey fronted double doors further up ahead, the metal handles bound together by a thick chain and padlock, a short plank of wood wedged through the handles like an extra precaution. A sign above the doors declares 'CAFETERIA', but written across the doors in black spray painted capital letters is the warning 'DON'T OPEN, DEAD INSIDE.'

As we draw closer, the sound the dead singing fills the air, voices speaking of hunger and torment. The doors open slightly, revealing a sliver of space between them. But the chains choke its progress as the plank of wood jams the gap from widening any further. I creep even closer, horror becoming overcome by fascination. I want to run but at the same time I want to remain, to edge that little bit further into the unknown.

As though sensing my close proximity, they start to bang the wood in earnest, making the chains rattle in protest, their terrible song increasing in volume, sounding almost frustrated at their inability to reach their prey. I can almost feel their anger at failing to get to us. Then just as I foolishly think this, a pale hand tinged with purple slips through the sliver of space, its nails long and manicured, the tips filed into perfect half moons. I watch with transfixed terror as its fingers flex into a claw-like shape, trying to reach for our flesh.

Then another hand appears, the nails rotting, blackened. One falls off as the hand tries to loosen the chains binding the doors together, fingers fumbling with the links as though trying to find the padlock. All fascination fades away, leaving only a sickening panic. I've seen the dead exhibit signs of human intelligence before, but this takes the biscuit. I'm out of my depth here. This is the Doctor's sphere, not mine.

I back away. Somehow my hand finds the man's hand. As I glance up at him, I see he's cringing in terror, shoulders hunched up to his earlobes, staring with bulging eyes at the fingers creeping through the gap like spiders. Again, denial and fear are written all over his face. And again, he's trying to delude himself into thinking this isn't real; that this is a nightmare he'll wake up from at any moment now.

"This is real," I whisper. "It's not a dream."

He looks down at me, a choked sob escaping his throat. Then he tears his hand out of mine before doing a runner, half hunching over as he disappears around a corner, heading annoyingly in the opposite direction we've just come from. I run after him, hissing, "Please! Please don't do this!", trying in vain to reach him before he reaches a set of double doors further up ahead, because God knows what lies behind them.

But despite his incapacitated state, his head-start has given him the advantage, and he reaches them before I do. He throws himself through the doors, hands slapping feebly against the wood as he shoves them open, then he's staggering away again, disappearing out of sight once more. I reach the doors just as they swing back into position, only managing to stall one door with my hand, the other one striking me in the back, knocking me into the door I'm holding fast so I become caught between them like a moron.

Finally I'm free, and I set forth again, raising my crowbar to eye-level, ready to strike as I round the corner. But it's just him, slumped sideways against the wall between the lifts, pressing the lift button with a desperation that nearly breaks my heart. As I approach him, lowering my crowbar as I go, he gives up on the lifts, heading instead towards a door marked 'FIRE EXIT' in white letters on a red panel. But he doesn't even look at the sign, just pushing the door open with an almost detached air.

I race after him, shoving myself through the door without a second thought. He's just standing there on the landing, looking dazzled by the light streaming in from behind me. Then the door bangs shut, plunging us both into darkness. I press my back against the wood, trying not to panic, to run back out there. They could be in here, not that he seems to care. But as I deliberate over what to do next, there's the hissing of a match being struck, then a small flash of flame.

The man holds his lighted match up like a candle, eyes narrowed against the glare of the orange light. I'm like a moth to the flame, drawing closer and closer. He looks down at me, face unreadable, but he doesn't make any further attempts to run. Then he turns to look at the match again, eyes widening as he studies it, face inching closer and closer to the flame in childish fascination, and I find myself becoming fascinated by his fascination.

As I study him studying the light, I start to get slightly uncomfortable as I realise how weird this is getting. But as I think this, he gets too close to the match, the smoke making him cough. He reels away from it, choking, holding it aloft, far from his face. And like that, my fascination dissipates, turning into annoyance instead. It's just one piddly match for God's sake, not a bonfire.

Then suddenly he staggers forwards, nearly falling headfirst down the stairs. He lets out a cry that would wake the dead, (if they weren't up and about already), before performing a spectacular comedy flail, his arms turning into propellors as he waves his hands in a circle through the air, the flame of the match flickering threateningly as he does so.

I lunge at him, grabbing his arm, yanking him back from the edge. But he drops the match in the process, plunging us into darkness again. His hand clutches my arm. But we can't stand about in the dark holding each other like we're about to start singing _Ring a Ring o' Roses_. Then to make everything even better than it is already, the man starts to cry, making my heart crack in my chest.

"Hey, it's alright," I cajole, letting go of his arm so I can pat his wrist. But like a scared child, he grabs my hand for reassurance instead. "Have you still got the other matches?" I whisper, trying to recover control of the situation. He seems to nod, but I can't be sure, since I can't see him. It feels like I'm talking to a ghost. Then he lets go of me before striking another match, the friendly amber light flickering over our faces again.

"Listen to me," I say quickly, "I'm going to get us out of here, okay?" He nods, eyes wide and fearful. "This is the plan, pal," I say, forcing myself to sound forceful and in command, "we keep quiet and we go slowly, one step at a time. No rushing or running or anything and you do exactly what I say if the shit goes down, right?"

He nods again before placing his free hand against the wall, using the brickwork as support as he starts to go down the steps, slowly, falteringly. I cling to the back of his hospital gown, irritated at the lack of stair-rail. It makes no sense to have it in one stair-well, and not the other, but that's the least of my worries just now I suppose. We keep moving, but as we hit the halfway landing, the match goes out again.

"It's alright," I say quickly as the man lets out a cry of alarm, his whole body tensing up under my fingers, "just light another one, you're doing really well." He does so before edging forwards again, but then he falters, raising the match to the ceiling, our gazes following the path of the flame.

The light illuminates the sign above us, 'EXIT' written in red capital letters. I'm about to roll my eyes and say _duh, _but I see the way the sign seems to give him hope, so I don't. Then we're moving again, except I can barely keep up with the man this time. We hit the bottom step and the match blinks out of life again, but the man doesn't react. In fact he just drops the rest of them, the faint thud of the box hitting the ground, breaking the silence. Then he's pushing open the door, the hinges creaking in protest as we step into the outside world.

* * *

Sunlight strikes our skin, the air misty and dreamlike, almost blinding us both as it chases away the darkness. My arm flies up to my face in defence, the man shielding his eyes with his hand. The sound of cicadas singing fills the air, reminding me that life goes on regardless of death. We take a few faltering steps forwards, hunching against the wall, the sunbaked brick propping us up, the man now holding his own arms up in front of his face like he's trying to fend off attackers. My gaze sweeps over our soulless surroundings, searching for home, a blue box, but we are all too alone, lost to a lost world. Then I stop dead, making the man jerk to a halt as well.

"I'm not going to re-populate the earth with you by the way," I snap, scrunching up my eyes as I scowl into the man's dumbstruck face, "just so you know." He doesn't say anything, but I don't suppose he can in the face of such virulent rejection. "Well. giddy up then," I say impatiently to the man, tugging on his hospital gown like it's a pair of reins. He just looks at me like I'm insane, but he giddies up all the same.

We stumble down metal steps strewn with dry brittle leaves, before entering some sort of loading dock area, completely surrounded by carnage, corpses littering the ground. The sight makes the man falter to a halt. I stand beside him, seeing it through his eyes, a kaleidoscope of horror, life and death dancing the Danse Macabre, the world waltzing to its end.

His hand finds mine. Then together, we traverse the maze of the dead, their remains wrapped in greying white sheets, ropes wound round their arms and legs to keep their bloodstained shrouds in place. Some efforts have been made to cover their faces, whilst others have just been left exposed to the elements. We pass trucks loaded with the dead, bodies piled three deep high like firewood. Bits of brick litter the ground, nearly tripping us up at every turn.

I pat the man's wrist again before leading him past the rest of the bodies on the ground, burying my nose into the crook of my arm as I do so, the man copying me. We keep walking, forcing one foot in front of the other, and then I hear them, their dead cries destroying the silence, and I know once and for all this is what the rest of our lives will be like, spent on the road, taking the long walk home.

_I get lost all the time__  
__In my thoughts, in my mind__  
__You come through like a light__  
__In the dark, give me sight..._


	4. What Should Not Be

**What Should Not Be**

_And through it all_  
_I stood and stumbled, waded through my thoughts and heart_  
_Yeah through it all_  
_I fooled and fumbled, lost to the poet's frown_  
_I fought the wolves of patience just to let it lie down..._

I don't know how far we've walked, but it feels like forever. We left the hospital behind a long time ago, taking one last glance at its blackened sandstone front and windows like broken teeth, before travelling through an impromptu army base filled with more bodies and more abandoned vehicles, khaki coloured tents billowing slightly in the faint breeze, Humvees, tanks and helicopters just rusting away into nothing. Then we passed through a park, the greenery giving way to concrete, and here we are, following electricity poles like the Yellow Brick Road. I tried to keep count of them, to put my jumbled mind into some sort of order, but I swiftly gave that up.

But as the landscape changed, so did the man. He started leading the way and I just let him. This is his turf, not mine. All I can do is watch for them. I'm not fooled by the silent stillness of our surroundings. I've seen too many empty streets suddenly become swarmed by them. Then the man stumbles but I manage to jerk him back up before he does a spectacular face-plant. He hasn't let go of my hand since we left the hospital, and in turn, I haven't let go of my crowbar.

I make him sit down on the edge of the sidewalk, wincing at the way he winces when he bends down. His wound's bothering him, even if he hasn't bothered to tell me, maybe thinking it would bother me. But it's clear as the nose on my face that he's in a lot of pain. This trekking shit isn't helping. We need a vehicle, but the ones we passed were of no use since I don't know how to hotwire a car and he doesn't look like the type to know either.

I stare down at the top of his curly head, frown deepening. It's not just a vehicle we need, but medical help too. His bandage needs changed, and somebody has to take a look at his wound as well. We need a doctor, _the _Doctor. And again my mind wanders back to the TARDIS, sending a silent plea into the ether to her to show up _now. _But all there is, is silence.

* * *

We walk slowly along the sidewalk, the electricity poles giving way to middle-class suburbia, the life I never had. My shoulder is wedged under the man's armpit, my arm wrapped carefully around his waist so he can lean on me. Somehow I've turned into a walking stick at the end of the world. It would be good if I was made of wood since it feels like I'm melting, the sun high in the sky, beating relentlessly down on our heads like a drum. I'm going to be sporting some sweet sunburn tomorrow. _If _we make it to tomorrow, that is.

We stagger past a bin knocked over onto its side, its innards spilling out onto the sidewalk. It smells even more awful than we do. Further up ahead is a border of short black wooden posts hammered haphazardly into the ground. Beyond their irregular boundary is a red bike lying on its side amongst the overgrown grass. The man suddenly makes a beeline for that very bike, hauling me along with him in his wake. I pull myself out of his grip, unable to keep up the pace, shoving him away from me. He staggers sideways, before recovering his equilibrium, continuing to stumble towards his precious two-wheeled prize. It's like a bad joke, the two of us trying to abscond from the apocalypse on the back of a bloody bicycle.

What we need is the TARDIS, but again, she could be anywhere, and she could turn up at any time, quite literally. I stand on the edge of the sidewalk, trying to second guess her next step, only to swiftly give up. There's no point in trying to make predictions. How can you anticipate the next move of a time machine when she can go anywhere and everywhere that ever was? The only advantage I have is hindsight and that's no use to me here.

* * *

I stand there, arms folded across my chest, watching the man struggle to lift the bike up by its frame and handles. Then he suddenly screams, letting go of the bike. As it crashes to the ground, I lunge forwards, moving at a staggering sprint. But as soon as I draw level with him, I have to grab his arm for support.

Lying abandoned in the long grass are the mangled remains of what used to be a woman, strands of bloodstained blonde hair clinging to her withered skull, stumps of sinew and muscle dangling from her torso, legs ripped off and long lost. Her skin looks like dried leather, her back flayed and exposed. The smell of rotting flesh is appalling, and I gag involuntarily, half turning away as I bury my nose in the crook of my elbow.

_Life and death, death and life, death is life. Two points of time and space that should never be... _It takes me a moment to pull myself together. With one last glance at the corpse, I lower my arm from my face, taking a shaky step forwards, shoving my crowbar into the man's hands, before kneeling down and lifting the bike up by its frame, wheezing with the effort. I don't even know why I'm bothering, but I suppose a bike is better than nothing. Wherever this man is leading us, I don't think it's the Promised Land - my gaze falls upon the corpse on the ground again, and my knees suddenly give way. I crash against the man, the bike falling with me. He catches us both, only to drop the crowbar.

"What's wrong with you?" the man suddenly asks, startling me. "Are you sick?"

"_I'm_ sick?" I say in disbelief, pulling myself out of his grip, making him stagger slightly

"Where you a patient at the hospital as well?" he says, face curious. I wheel the bike away from him, trying to keep a healthy distance between us. "If you aren't a nurse or a patient, why were you in the hospital? Where you visiting someone?" he presses, following me, undeterred by the distance.

"What's with the Spanish Inquisition, pal?" I retort, backing further away from him. "You a copper or something?"

It takes a moment for the meaning of my words to cross the culture divide. To him, it sounds like I'm asking if he's a coin or a piece of scrap metal. "Yeah, I'm a cop," the man then says, looking surprised at my guess being correct. I'm surprised too. Holmes by name, Holmes by nature, as the Doctor would say. Deduction is in my veins. No shit Sherlock. Then I silently slap myself into sense again. He's a copper and he's been shot. It all adds up. Unless he's a bank robber. Then my sums are wrong. I silently slap myself again. I'm starting to get a handle on him. This means I'm gaining the upper hand. "You're English," he says, interrupting my thoughts, sounding confused. "Are you a tourist then?"

"Do I look like I'm on holiday to you?"

To my surprise, he suddenly grins, albeit reluctantly and very shakily, but a grin nonetheless. Then he glances down at me, and something about that glance and grin combined breaks through my defences. "Look, like I said, I'm a toilet attendant," I say tiredly, "or I was, I don't know anymore. But I was with this man, my friend, and we got separated, so I was... I was just wandering around, cruising the area for supplies," I explain, "so I hit the hospital, hoping I could score something, you know, food, water, a weapon, like a proper weapon - anything I could use really, when you showed up, all Omega Man and shit."

He just studies me for a long moment, face inscrutable. Then we both jump as the corpse on the ground lets out a gasp, a disgusting bone-crunching squelching noise filling the air as she flips herself over onto her side like a horrible human-sized crab. She turns her ravaged red-eyed face in our direction, and before any of us can react, her hand shoots out from underneath her torso, her bony fingers grabbing my ankle.

I scream, completely losing my head. The man screams as well, trying to drag me and the bike away from her_, _but like a moron, he's dragging her along with us. I try to kick myself free but I'm hopping at the same time, trying to keep up with the man and the bike. We're going round in circles, the man sobbing like a baby, me not much better, the man then tripping up on the hem of his hospital gown, stumbling sideways in a half circle before falling abruptly onto his backside, the bike landing on top of him with a clatter, taking me down with it.

I land on my front, half lying on the ground, half on the bike. I lie there for a long moment, stunned. Then reality comes rushing back, panic hitting me right in the solar plexus. I hastily stagger to my feet, kicking my legs this way and that way like a can-can dancer, before realising she no longer has a grip on me. My fall must have broken her hold. I do a final little ridiculous twirl before stumbling to a halt beside the man who is still sitting amongst the grass like some overgrown gnome.

With some difficulty, I haul him to his feet, and then I pick up the bike, wondering all over again why I'm even bothering. It's a bike and a bike's no use to us. We need a goddamn car, not some tricycle or bicycle or whatever. Then I slump forwards, almost landing on my face - again. But the man catches me and the bike - again - and it's like everything is going to repeat itself - again - so I shake him off, leaning against the bike handles for support instead. "What's wrong with you?" the man asks - again - voice shaking as he clings to the back of my vest, reverting back into a child - again.

"I'm turning into Tom Cruise," I say sarcastically. "I suggest you get me some high heels, especially if there are any shelves about that need reaching."

The man just looks at me as though I'm insane. I just roll my eyes. I'm more concerned about the carcass-cleaner. She's snarling at us - no surprises there - the area around her mouth exposed and torn away, revealing rotting teeth. Chunks have been taken out of her arms, leaving dark patches of dried blood. One hand is clawing the air, fingers curled into pincers, the other hand clutching clumps of grass, using it as a means of propulsion to drag herself over the ground like some ghastly oversized slug.

"Let's go," I then say tiredly, turning to face the man. "There's nothing for us here. Not anymore, anyways."

His gaze meets mine, almost resigned. In that one glance he's silently saying he believes me now. I nod, accepting his acceptance. He then takes the bike, almost snatching the handlebars out of my hands, before wheeling it away, clearing some distance between us and the carcass-cleaner. I trail behind him, unsure as to what to do next. I know I said let's go, but he's the one leading us, so I guess we've reached deadlock.

To my surprise, he gets on the bike, looking comical as his hospital gown flaps slightly in the breeze. "Get behind me," he orders, surprising me even more. Then surprise becomes annoyance. The idea of him being strong enough to pedal a bike on his own and in his bare feet, never mind with a passenger on the back, is completely laughable. But then his gaze meets mine, grey flint on bright blue, and my rebellion crumbles into dust.

He leans forward, half on the saddle, half in the air, and I clamber behind, taking the rest of the seat, tucking my feet up out of the way of the pedals, carefully avoiding his bandage as I wrap my arms around his middle. I haven't done this since I was fourteen when Jamie used to give me backies. I press the side of my face against his shoulder and he sets off, the bike creaking under our combined weight, wobbling from side to side. But the wheels begin to pick up speed and soon we're moving at a much swifter pace, much to my relief.

We pass over grass and sidewalk, under the shade of the trees and the glare of the sun. My thoughts turn with the wheels, mulling over how odd that my life so far has prepared me for this world. Being orphaned taught me to depend on myself because there was nobody else to depend on during the dark years spent being shunted between children's homes and foster parents.

Growing up toughened me up, and being grown-up turned me into a hard-headed, sharp-tongued shrew. I had to be practical; prepared. Time spent with Joshua, then Jamie, was too transient; even when we were together, we were always divided by the Doctor, his erratic presence in my life a secret I had to keep since nobody would understand. Hell, I don't even understand it now, never mind then. And all the time, the shell around my heart hardened until it was like a concrete casing, entombing my emotions, burying them alive. It was only through travelling with the Doctor and widening the narrow horizons of my life that I began to change, thawing fraction by fraction because he was no longer leaving me behind.

But life with the Doctor has a terrible beauty to it and sometimes it's a nightmare to be endured. You have to be strong to survive it, to survive him. And so far I've survived. But I don't know if I'm strong enough to survive this time round. I bury my face in the man's shoulder, the cheap synthetic fabric of his hospital gown tickling my cheek. He's all I have now.


	5. Lead Me Home

**Lead Me Home**

_In this house on a hill  
The dead are living still._

The man breathes heavily, wheezing with the effort of keeping up the momentum. He swings the bike towards the sidewalk, making a sharp turn that nearly throws me off. I have to cling on for dear life as he goes down the grass verge, the wheels juddering up and down, making the teeth rattle in our heads. Then we finally hit concrete and the jolting thankfully stops as we speed past rows of silent houses that used to be homes, the sidewalk flying under our feet in a blur of grey.

As we reach a white picket fence slowly being suffocated by the overgrown hedge behind it, the man slows down, enough for me to slide off the saddle and for him to swing his leg over, hopping off before throwing the bike aside. It crashes to the ground, wheels still spinning. Then he's gone, half crawling up some steps that lead to a white garden gate. He makes to push it open, slumping against it for support instead. I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, trying to steady my shaking legs, cursing myself and the man for losing our only weapon. Then I walk forwards, glancing around as I move, taking in the quiet street and its picture perfect houses, all clambakes and cosy cups of tea, the sort of place where nothing bad happened, until now.

Sighing heavily, I take the man by the elbow, steering him up the path, anxious not to remain out in the open. But as we move, my anxiety only increases. This place might be his home but we don't know what we're walking into. The whole house could be heaving with them, a hive of the dead. As we pass a garden shed, I half-heartedly contemplate kicking the door down in case I can score another crowbar, only to rapidly decide against it as my knees tremble threateningly.

Suddenly the man breaks free of my grip, and before I can react, he's gone, stumbling down the rest of the path, then up the porch steps before disappearing through the front door of the house. I stagger after him, cursing his stupidity under my breath. As I reach the porch, I hear him shouting _Lori! _but when I go into the hall, I can't see him anywhere. Then he appears in a doorway, making me jump violently.

He hollers _Lori! _again, and I leap forwards, clamping my hand over his mouth. "What did I say about keeping your voice down!?" I hiss, but he just tears himself away from me, running back into the room behind him. I follow him, heart tripping with trepidation, as the man wanders over to the double bed, snatching up a crumpled red shirt flung over the headboard.

I stare at the shirt, the deep burgundy shade of the fabric reminding me of a dress I once had, the past starting to swirl around me - _dark corners and dance floors, the crowd parting like a good-bye, the Doctor standing there, eyebrows raised, bowtie at his throat _- and then I blink, feeling like I've just fallen from a great height. The man drops the red shirt to the floor, before taking off again, doing a recce around the room, his face distorted by terror and grief.

I slowly turn on the spot, studying the room myself with not much interest, fists clenched by my sides. Looting has lost its novelty factor for me now, and there doesn't seem to be much on offer here. Drawers have been hastily pulled out, their contents chucked everywhere. The doors to an antique wardrobe have been left open, exposing rows of empty coat hangers and almost bare shelves. Furniture is lying on its side, a bedside cabinet, a chair. The flowers scattered around the room in various vases are long dead, filling the air with a rancid decomposing smell.

As the man disappears through another doorway opposite, I wrestle with the idea of following him, to maybe hit the kitchen and see if I can score a bottle of water, but my legs have other ideas and I collapse down on the edge of the bed, fighting the urge to curl up into a ball and sleep. Shaking my head to clear it, I study my surroundings again, but in much closer detail, even though I'm finding it increasingly hard to concentrate, my mind blurring and blackening, but despite this, it's possible to see there's a sort of cohesion to the chaos.

I make myself stand up so I can snoop around since I'm not going to get anywhere sitting on my arse. There's something wrong with this room and I have to work it out, since the man's too far gone with grief to do so. Involuntarily I remember the Doctor saying _Holmes by name, Holmes by nature,_ and I force myself to focus, blocking out the pain of the past even as it threatens to engulf me all over again.

First I check the clothes left behind, all men's stuff: t-shirts, jeans, jumpers; all hanging out of drawers and lying on the floor and bed. A search of the walk-in wardrobe in the corner reveals more: shirts, suits, ties and the fancy shiny pointy shoes that I hate on a man. But alongside all this is women's stuff; a white wedding dress in its transparent protective wrapping; various dresses; blouses with sharp edges, softened by cashmere cardigans. I feel the fabric, envying the luxury.

There are rows of impractical looking shoes lined neatly against the wall, cosmetics littering a fancy looking French style dressing table. I rifle through them, out of sheer nosiness than anything else. There's foundation, blushers, lipsticks, mascaras, eye-shadow, anti-ageing creams, moisturizer; a pair of hair straighteners and curling tongs. I avoid looking at my own reflection, not wanting to see the wreck I've become.

Then I pick up a red lipstick, frowning. All that I've found of this Lori is fripperies and frivolities. Practical things like t-shirts or deodorants or boots and trainers are gone. I can't find a pair of her jeans anywhere, and trust me I've looked, especially in light of the state of my own jeans. Going by the dresses and make-up, she's maybe not a jean and t-shirt kind of person, but that's not proof, not to me anyways. Something's wrong, but I just can't put my finger on it.

Driven by desperation, I go through her underwear drawer. All that's there is romantic ethereal numbers, wisps of lace and ribbon that I hastily turn my back on, feeling like a complete pervert. But it still stands there's not one practical piece of underwear in that drawer. Either she never owned any, or she took them with her, since the more I think of it, the more I think she's fled. I sit back down on the edge of the bed, mulling over this thought, unable to think of any alternative. I gaze at the wall opposite, frowning at the faded squares marking where pictures used to hang. I stare at them, the cogs of my mind turning, and then I slap my forehead, cursing my stupidity.

That's what's wrong with the room, it's lacking identity, the personal touches that bring a place to life. Then I slump back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. What does it matter if some photos are missing? It doesn't change the obvious fact this Lori's done a runner. She's probably took her precious photos with her. But just to make sure, I get up and comb the room again, searching for photo albums, wedding scrapbooks, anything to give a face for who the man is searching for. But again, there's nothing. Whoever ransacked this room did so in a way that was fast but well thought out. And whoever they were are long gone.

* * *

_"Lori! Carl!"_

I slam the doors of the walk-in wardrobe shut, before leaning my forehead against the wooden patina. He can shout until kingdom come, but nobody's here and nobody's coming back. Not for me, not for him. The Doctor is gone. So are this Lori and Carl. They're all gone. They could be anywhere. They could be dead. All he has left is me, and maybe he won't even have that. As I think this, an inhuman howl echoes through the house, the sound completely paralysing me. It's like somebody's heart has just been ripped out of their chest, making my own stop in sympathy. Then I snap back to life. If they're here...

I look around, searching for a weapon, finding none.

I stumble out of the bedroom and into the hall, then the kitchen, ransacking the place, but all I find is a useless butter knife which I take regardless of its ineffectiveness. It's better than nothing I suppose, but I might as well spread some margarine while I'm waiting to die. Then I nearly die there and then as another howl hurtles through the house again. My hand tightens around the butter knife. Maybe it's not just the living dead I'm up against, but lycanthropes as well.

I close my eyes for a long moment, trying to steady myself, time crashing together like cymbals in my skull - _twilight by the Thames, a sunset in Thebes, what do you want from me, girl? _- and then I open them again, the whiteness of the kitchen walls suddenly blinding me with their brightness - _follow the tracks, once upon a time, stardust in my hair_ - and I force myself forwards, staggering into a narrow passage with a white wooden ladder leading to somewhere high above, a loft maybe.

As I blunder on, my attention is half caught by an interpretation of the American flag hand-painted on a sheet of wood, hung high above a statement sideboard. Then I go past a child's bedroom, averting my gaze away from the Lego scattered across the floor, before lurching into a living room filled with wicker furniture and bamboo bookcases, nearly tripping over in quick succession a tea-chest being used as a coffee table, a dark green and gold ottoman and a largish carved wooden swan near the ornamental fireguard. Then there's another inhuman howl, but its source is all too human, as I find the man curled up in a ball on the wooden floorboards, trying to bury himself in the heart of his home.

I kneel down with some difficulty beside him, chucking the butter knife aside, before patting his head awkwardly. He looks up, face mottled, eyes red-rimmed. He looks so pathetic, I lose my uncharacteristic shyness, wrapping my arms around his shoulders like he's a child needing comfort. He buries his face into my arm, keening the names of his lost family, before breaking down and wailing again, a kind of caterwauling that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It takes all my strength to stay there and endure his pain. I never could withstand my own, trying to flee it through drink or a blur of men who I never knew the names of. In the end, I escaped by running away with the Doctor, losing myself amongst the stars.

After a while, the man falls silent. Then he looks up at me, half searching, half disbelieving, before glancing around the room, face helpless, almost blank. He looks like a little boy who is lost; who wants to go home. But he _is _home. I click my fingers in front of his face, making him blink. But he doesn't snap out of his trance. He stares down at the floorboards like he's never seen them before, gently pressing the palm of his hand against the wood as though checking to make sure it's there, that it exists. Then he raises his head, fixing his gaze on me with almost unseeing eyes. "Is this real?" he asks. "Am I here?"

I nod, tears filling my eyes. He closes his own, pressing the side of his hand into his forehead, like he's trying to resist clawing out the memories tormenting him. Then he suddenly snaps, slapping his brow over and over again, like he's trying to knock himself out. I spring at him, grabbing his hand, stopping him. With a sharp twist of his neck, he glares up at me, sniffing childishly, blue eyes brimming with tears, face angry and upset, almost petulant. His jaw tightens, lips pursing together, before yanking his hand out of mine. But then his face crumples, and he mutters to himself like a litany, _wake up... wake up... wake up... _hands sliding over the floorboards as he slumps forwards, ready to collapse on the ground again.

Again, I make to stop him, but he rears back, eyes fearful, looking at me as though I'm going to strike him. Then he looks round the room again, lower lip wobbling before getting to his feet, staggering away from me and out of the living room. I get to my own feet, my treacherous knees threatening to betray me again, but I block it out, stumbling after him, calling to him to come back. But he ignores me, wandering into the hall instead, towards the front door, into danger outside. I go after him, hesitating on the porch as he drifts down the path. I don't know what to do or where to go. He's lost his mind and I'm losing myself, the TARDIS lost, the Doctor gone.

To my relief, the man sits down on the steps that lead up from the sidewalk. I stumble down the path towards him, trying to hold myself together. Then I collapse down beside him, body slumping with relief at the prospect of rest. To my surprise, he leans his head against my shoulder. For a long moment, we just sit there, staring blankly at the street opposite, remembering another life. Sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the sidewalk with shadows, birdsong filling the air, making me shiver despite the heat. This is his home, the place where he lives, the pavement he's walked along a million times. But it might as well be an alien planet for all his past is worth now.


	6. Noctambulist

**Noctambulist **

I sit bolt upright, every muscle and nerve on high alert, adrenaline replacing apathy. I'm ready to run, to make like a rabbit down the nearest burrow. The man raises his head from my shoulder, turning to see what I see.

Somebody is walking down the road; somebody _alive_.

With some difficulty, I get to my feet. The person alters direction, changing from walking in a straight line to a sharp angle instead, heading directly to where we are, moving at a jerky shambling pace that suddenly strikes terror in my heart. It's one of _them. _I hastily grab the man's arm, forcing him to his own feet, the face of the carcass-cleaner becoming clearer as it draws closer, a man with a twisted mouth and greasy dark hair, his head tilted to one side. Heart hammering in my chest, I try to drag the man back to the house, but he just shoves me aside, annoyed.

"What the fuck are you playing at!?" I hiss, trying to grab his arm again. But he just evades me before raising his hand in hesitant greeting to the carcass-cleaner, his face alight with childish hope at seeing what he thinks is another human being.

For a second I can't move, astonishment paralysing me. Then I remember my own stupidity, his foolishness reflecting my own, and something snaps inside me. Before I can stop myself, I slap him across the face, hard. He staggers back, shocked, hand flying to his cheek. I stand there, stunned. Then he backs away from me before suddenly making for the sidewalk, tottering down the steps, desperately calling to the carcass-cleaner, "Please, sir, can you help me? My family used to live here" -

- "Are you insane?" I scream, grabbing his arm again, trying to pull him back. A struggle ensues, the man being pulled up a step, then me being pulled down one, a pattern that repeats itself over and over again as my head swims, the carcass-cleaner advancing on us, the world falling apart around us -

"Don't worry, I'll save ya lady!" a high piping voice calls out of nowhere. I half turn at the sound, startled. Then there's a flash of red, something swishing through the air - I scream again, lunging forwards - amidst the blur of movement, I see the man's shocked upturned face, then there's a sharp clang, and he goes down, body rolling down the steps, hitting sidewalk.

I just stare in shock at the small boy perched on the step above me. He's wearing jeans rolled up at the hems and a red top riddled with sweat patches, the sleeves flapping past his wrists; hands brandishing a metal shovel like it's a sword. He stares at me with a wide-eyed wonder, a strange mixture of pride and nervousness shining in his big brown eyes, obviously pluming himself on his heroics. I sway slightly on the spot, head spinning.

"Are ya alright, lady?" he asks, worried.

I ignore him, focusing instead on the shovel in the kid's hands. The carcass-cleaner. It's coming. I stagger down the steps, ready to confront it, only to nearly trip over the man on the ground. I slump down beside him, eyes blurring as his own blur, like he's looking at a far horizon only he can reach. Blood drips from his nose, his lower lip, echoing the blood that drips from the lips of the dead.

"Daddy! Daddy!" the small boy shouts, jumping up and down in frustration. As though from far away, I realise he's probably been forbidden from killing carcass-cleaners, something he obviously disagrees with. Unbidden, I think of the little girl back at the hospital, lying so small and still on the ground, her fair hair falling around her decomposing face, then her flickering image is shattered as the man speaks, staring almost unseeingly at the boy. "Carl," he says weakly, "I've found you."

A snarl tears through the air. I glance up, heart hammering in my ears. The carcass-cleaner is coming up the sidewalk now. This is it, the end, a bitter, ignominious end. I was nothing before, and I'm nothing now, and I'll be nothing again. I look down at the man's face, at the grief still etched on his features. This is not how he should die, like a piece of rubbish on the pavement. Rage burns through my veins, anger stiffening my spine, making my head turn in the direction of the little boy on the steps, all my ire centring on him. I suddenly lunge forwards, grabbing the shovel, trying to yank it out of his hands. But he holds fast to the handle, refusing to let go, the two of us pulling on the shovel like it's a cracker.

"What are ya doin'?" the boy yelps. "I just saved ya!"

"Give me the shovel!" I scream, my whole world becoming reduced to the carcass-cleaner coming towards us.

The boy's eyes meet mine, fear creeping into his face. Then he suddenly lets go of the shovel, and I suddenly shoot backwards, almost landing on my arse. The boy dances up and down on the spot, shouting, "Daddy! Daddy! Help me! She's stealin' ma shovel!" I hastily straighten myself out, before screaming like a banshee and charging at the carcass-cleaner, shovel raised high above my head like the sword of Damocles, adrenalin and anger lending me strength.

Then somebody springs round the side of me, appearing out of nowhere. I falter in mid charge as he runs in front of me, raising his gun and blasting the carcass-cleaner in the head with it. I trip to a stunned halt, the world spiralling around me as the gunshot rings throughout the empty street, the carcass-cleaner's brains splattering the sidewalk.

* * *

The man turns away from the fallen corpse, pointing his gun at me instead. "Drop the shovel," he orders, his voice deep and melodious. I swiftly drop the shovel, taking a shaky step back as it falls to the ground, the clatter half muffled by the grass growing by the sidewalk. "Now put your hands in the air!" the man then bellows. I unwillingly raise my hands. Maybe this is how I regenerate, shot like the Seventh Doctor.

The man strides down the sidewalk, still aiming his gun at my head. I watch as he stoops down, picking up the shovel, before tucking it under his arm. "Go into that shed, Duane, an' see if there's some rope or somethin' in there," he says, looking me up and down like I'm a slice of beef he's thinking of buying.

"Why are your clothes all torn up like that?" he asks suspiciously as Duane wanders over to the shed.

I shake my head, refusing to commit to an explanation.

"You been bitten?"

Again, I shake my head.

His eyes narrow, obviously not believing me. "Any scratches then, cuts, nicks, anythin' like that?" he snaps.

I shake my head for the third time.

"What did you say?"

"I said no!" I bellow, trying not to look at him or his gun.

"I never heard you say jack all," he says contemptuously. Then his head snaps up as Duane comes out of the shed, armed with a coil of manky looking rope. An exchange happens between father and son; Duane taking the gun, his father taking the coil of rope. And like father like son, Duane trains the gun on me, both hands holding it steady.

"You got any weapons?" the man asks, gaze flickering over me again.

"I had a butter knife," I say bluntly, "but I left it in the house back there."

_"A butter knife?"_

"I had a crowbar, alright, but I lost it."

"An' your mind as well, girl!" the man exclaims. "You can't walk around armed with butter knifes an' crowbars; they might be alright for gettin' up close an' personal with one or two, but you get a crowd of 'em on your tail? You need firepower or a decent blade, a machete or somethin', not the shit you've been carryin'."

I frown slightly, wondering at how he seems almost _worried _about my welfare. It sits at odds with the gun and the coil of rope. Then he pulls a flick-knife out of his jean pocket. My heart jumps up into my throat at the sight of it and I suddenly consider making a run for it, only to stop short at the sight of the man lying on the ground. He's staring up at the sky, his blue-grey eyes dazed and confused. I can't abandon him; I just can't, even if it costs me my life. But still my gaze darts nervously between the flick-knife and gun. I might escape the sharp edge of a blade but it would be stupid to try and outrun a bullet. Duane might be a little boy but he might also be a good shot; I don't know and I don't particularly want to find out.

"You're awfully calm for a girl with a gun bein' pointed at her head," the man says suddenly, eyes narrowing. "You used to this sort of thin' or somethin'?"

I manage a non-committal shrug. I've been held hostage more times than I care to remember, and I've had space guns bigger than Duane pointed at my head, so this is pretty mild compared to what I'm used to. The man glares at me, and despite the gun, I just glare back. He then stows his knife back in his pocket, before gesturing at me to lower my arms. I do so, face rebellious as he wraps the rope around my wrists, binding my hands together before me. Despite myself, I watch his own hands, almost absentmindedly studying their swift movements. "You admirin' my manicure, girl?" he says sarcastically, and I hastily look away, flushing hotly. He just scoffs derisively before half turning away from me for a moment, muttering something over his shoulder to his son.

As soon as I see his back's turned, I furtively twist my wrists from side to side, trying in vain to find some wiggle room, but there's none. But even though the rope's tightly tied with undoable knots, it isn't cutting off my circulation or biting into my skin. Still, at least he's not tied my ankles together. I don't really fancy hopping to my doom. The man then hands over the shovel to Duane, who takes it. He's only got one hand on the gun now, the weapon wavering slightly in mid air.

"Gun," the man prompts, gesturing impatiently to it. Duane reluctantly hands it over. His father then trains the gun on me once more. For a split second, I wonder what the hell he's up to. If he was going to kill me, he would have done it by now instead of wasting time cross-examining me and trussing me up like a turkey. Swallowing hard, I think of other more terrible alternatives that could be in store for me, before dismissing them. Maybe I'm deluding myself, but I think the worst he's capable of is killing, nothing more, nothing less.

"What the hell's goin' on then, girl?" he asks gruffly.

"You tell me!" I retort. "Your son came out of nowhere and attacked us with a shovel. That's all I know."

He tilts his head to one side, eyes screwed up in confusion. "You English?" he says, perplexed.

"What, you just realising that now?" I spit. "What's your problem? Why don't you just point out I'm white as well while you're at it? None of that shit is relevant anymore! In fact, it never was!"

The man has the grace to look embarrassed. But he also looks faintly amused as well, much to my bewilderment. "What happened, Duane?" he asks his son, but his eyes remain locked with mine with alarming intensity.

"I saw that son of a bitch attackin' that lady," Duane gabbles, "so I saved her!" - he brandishes the shovel like a sword - "I got that son of a bitch! An' I'm gonna get him again! I'm gonna smack him dead!"

"Do that and I'll smack you dead, sunshine!" I say, before I can stop myself.

The man clicks his gun into gear, making me tense up. "Don't you dare threaten my son," he says coldly, smile gone. "It might be the last thin' you ever do." I just stare at him mutinously. He narrows his eyes for the umpteenth time before looking at Duane. "An' don't you ever swear like that again," he reprimands, "you weren't brought up to talk trash, right?" Duane just nods, looking as mutinous as me.

"You shouldn't be surprised," I suddenly say with false bravado, "the apple obviously doesn't fall far from the tree."

There's a deadly silence. My eyes meet his dark ones, silently daring him to do something. It's a suicidal thing to do, but I can't help it. I've always been pushing the boundaries, never satisfied with bending them, only wanting to break them. Joshua, Jamie, the faceless men of midnights long past, they all gave way. I broke them. But this man seems different, tougher, not easily pushed over.

As though to prove my point, he doesn't say or do anything. He just looks at me almost thoughtfully. I tilt my chin defiantly, but my lower lip trembles slightly, much to my silent disgust. Some undefined emotion flickers across his face. Then he lowers his gun, making my legs twitch dangerously as the insane urge to flee fills my thoughts again. "Don't even think about it," the man says, reading my mind like a book. "If I don't get you, the geeks will."

"Geeks?" I ask, confused.

"Walkers. Biters. Zombi. Noctambulists. Snake gods. In short, the livin' dead, girl," he snaps. "Where have you been, man? Mars?"

"Once," I admit before I can stop myself, "but that was a long time ago."

"You're nuts, you know that?" the man says incredulously.

"I'm not," I protest weakly. The man just shakes his head at me before striding over to where the man is lying on the ground, half on the grass, half on the concrete. He looks at him as though he's a specimen he'd like to study in greater detail, reminding me of the Doctor for a moment, the memory making my heart fracture my chest.

"Is this guy your brother or somethin'?" the man says over his shoulder, gesturing to the man with his gun.

"Would you mind not waving that about, please?!" I snap, agitated in case it goes off. To my relief, he lowers it. "He's not my brother," I then answer quickly, anxious to prolong this unexpected equanimity. "I don't know who he is."

"It's just... it's just the two of you sort of look alike that's all, except you're prettier," he says almost absentmindedly, studying the man again. But then his head snaps up, his gaze becoming riveted on me with that alarming intensity again. "But not that much prettier, mind you," he adds sarcastically, face scornful.

"Well, thanks for the compliment, pal," I fire back.

The man ignores me, turning to his son again. "He say somethin' earlier? I thought I heard him say somethin' when I was comin' up through the back," he says to his son who frowns.

"He called me Carl or somethin'," Duane shrugs.

"That's his son," I say quietly, struggling to stay upright.

"I thought you didn't know this guy," the man snaps, whirling on me. But before I can frame a retort, he turns on his son. "An' why did you hit him with the shovel, Duane, when you know they don't talk!"

"I thought he was attackin' that lady!" Duane protests. "An' he wasn't talkin' that time, Daddy! He was grabbin' her arm an' stuff; he looked like he was gonna bite her!"

"That's because he was trying to go over and talk to that - that Walker," I say with some difficulty, trying to get to grips with this new definition of the undead. "He was waving hello to it..." My voice trails off at the sight of the man's appalled face. "He thought it was alive!" I say, trying to defend myself. "And so did I - at first, I mean!"

The man just looks at me like I'm mad. "Who are you people?" he asks in disbelief.

"Does it matter?" I say. "We're alive when the rest of the world is dead. That's all that matters" -

- "Don't get all poetic on me, girl," the man says, cutting me off, "I'd rather you gave me some toilet roll than rhymes." My jaw drops slightly. "Oh come on, haven't you ever tried wipin' your ass with the _National Enquirer?_ It's just shit all round," he says, and I'm not sure if he's joking or not, so I just stick to letting my jaw drop that bit further. He rolls his eyes before turning his attention back to the man on the ground. "Hey mister, what's that bandage for?" he asks, looking down at him.

"What... what?" the other man replies, eyes wide and almost unseeing as he stares up at Duane and his dad.

The man's lips tighten. Then he points his gun downwards, aiming it at the other man's head. "NO!" I scream, stumbling forwards. "He wasn't bitten! He was shot, alright!? He was shot for God's sake, he was shot!"

"What kind of wound?" the man asks, ignoring me.

"I TOLD YOU HE WAS SHOT!"

The man swings the gun in my direction. I shut up, swallowing hard. Then he points the gun downwards again, and I throw myself forwards. The next thing I know, he's sidestepping me, trapping me in a one-armed headlock, my feeble attempts at escape cut short by the gun pressed against my temple. "What kind of wound?" the man repeats, enunciating every word. "Answer me, damn you, or she dies!"

My eyes meet Duane's. He's absolutely terrified. "Please," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "he was shot, I _swear_."

His only answer to this is to jam the butt of his gun into the underside of my chin, forcing me to tilt my head up. "You tell me... or I kill the girl," the man says coldly, voice cracking slightly.

"Daddy," Duane whispers, his wide-eyed gaze travelling from my face to the gun next to my throat, "you're scarin' me." But his father just presses the gun even deeper into my neck, forcing me to raise my head up even further in turn, trying to hopelessly escape the scrape of the metal on my skin. The man on the ground just looks round at us all, face pale and bewildered. Then his body suddenly convulses before slumping into stillness, his eyelids fluttering shut, effectively sealing my doom. Silence falls and I snap, no longer caring about consequences.

"Do it," I say from between gritted teeth, "just get it over and done with."

Then I close my eyes, waiting for the end, for the death I wanted all along, swift and final. But when it doesn't arrive, I dare to open my eyes, only to see the man has lowered his gun.

* * *

I retreat into the corner as the man dumps the other man onto a double bed, the mattress springs creaking in protest.

"Daddy?" Duane asks, appearing in the doorway, still carrying his stupid shovel. His father looks up sharply, before turning his back on his son and staring down at the ground instead, eyes scrunched up, like he's trying not to cry. I watch as Duane tries to work up the effort to come into the room, his dad still ignoring him.

"Daddy?" Duane asks again, voice nervous.

"Just go, son!" his father snaps, whirling around.

Duane beats a hasty retreat. As he disappears out of sight, I lean against the wall, closing my eyes.

* * *

I sit on the floor, back hunched, the sound of hammering filling the air as the man finishes boarding up the front door. Duane eyeballs me, passing his baseball bat between his hands, like he's going to hit a home run or my head. I shift uncomfortably on the spot, trying to anchor myself to the floorboards. There's a strange weightlessness growing in my bones, an odd detachment. I eye Duane's baseball bat, imagining it being turned to dust by a cloud of regeneration energy. But then it again, it might just come back as a bookcase.

"Where's your shovel?" I ask weakly, trying to distract myself from the detachment. But Duane just ignores me. The hammering ceases. I suppose his dad is done now entombing us alive. The man appears in the doorway, hesitating like his son did before, terrible pain flickering in his eyes as he looks around the room. I study him, feeling kind of nervous but curious at the same time.

But he catches himself, shaking his head as though to clear it of whatever's tormenting him. He strides over to my corner, pulling out his flick-knife as he moves. He kneels down in front of me, holding the flick-knife up to my eyes, tilting the blade to the left, then the right, as though he wants me to see it from all angles, potential destruction at every point. I swallow hard, trying to subdue my fear.

"Listen to me, girl," he says quietly, "I ain't gonna hurt you in any way but this way" - he motions slitting his throat - "an' it'll be with this knife, if you give me any jip or if you try anythin' funny, okay?"

I just nod, not wanting to say anything smart in case he slashes me. "As long as you understand that, we'll get along alright," the man says, standing up, stowing his flick-knife away.

I clear my throat awkwardly, making him look down at me sharply. "Um, can I ask you one or two things?" I ask hesitantly.

He just looks at me, eyes narrowing.

"I need the loo," I say in a rush, "and I'm hungry and I'm thirsty, and see the man on the bed? He needs his bandage changed, it's absolutely rank."

The man raises his eyebrows. "Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all," I say sullenly, humiliated at being reduced to the level of a toddler, having to tell him I need to go potty. But the man's lips twitch, like he's trying not to laugh. I look at him, confused. One second he's threatening to cut my throat, the next he's nearly all smiles.

The man then motions at me to get up, and I try, but I can't. He ends up having to haul me to my feet, using my bound hands almost as leverage. Then he steers me past Duane and through the doorway into the hall, leading me round a corner, then another, before reaching a plain white door. He pushes it open for me, and I gasp in shock as the sheer unadulterated stench of shit hits me right in the face, making me retch despite myself.

"The plumbin' ain't workin'," the man explains, covering his face with his arm, "so thin's just... pile up."

"You don't say," I manage to choke out, nearly gagging.

"It's too dangerous to take a dump outside," the man says, voice muffled, "an' we can't do our business in a bucket, you know, just chuckin' it out of a window an' whatch you call it - I've got the whole ground level boarded up, an' tossin' it outside from upstairs would just attract the attention of the geeks."

I just nod, incapable of speech now. I've faced many terrible things during my travels with the Doctor but none as terrifying as this toilet. "Go easy on the toilet roll," the man warns, half turning away as I step forwards, "there's not much left." He slams the door shut behind me, leaving me to my fate. I don't waste any time trying to find a weapon or something to cut myself free, figuring it best I play it cool - for the time being. The window is boarded up, but the stink will have killed me before I've even pried the first plank loose. And anyways, I'm not leaving the man to the mercy of Duane and his deranged dad.

Taking short shallow breaths, I try to clean my hands with the sliver of soap on the side of the sink, wiping my hands on the front of my filthy jeans, wondering why I'm even bothering. I haven't brushed my teeth for two days at least, only rubbing toothpaste on my gums with my finger, since I couldn't score a clean toothbrush. And as for the last time I had a shower, forget it.

I take one last swift glance at the boarded up window, thinking of the world outside, of the Doctor divided from me, before kicking the door to signal I'm done. The man pushes it open again, face scrunched up, nose tucked into his shoulder. I dive out of the room, the man slamming the door shut, the bang echoing throughout the still hall, making me wince. He then leads me back to the bedroom, steering me over to my corner, where a wooden chair has been placed. I sit down, surprised at his consideration.

"Thanks," I say cautiously, wondering if he's trying to get my guard down.

He nods abruptly in acknowledgement, face inscrutable. My gaze then drifts from him to the double bed, where bandages and a first aid kit have been laid out. "I thought you would have been guarding the door the whole time," I say smartly, throwing all caution to the wind. This time it's him that's surprised. I jerk my chin at the bandages and first aid kit, kicking the wooden leg of my chair for good measure. His face clears.

"I figured you wouldn't be dumb enough to try anythin' stupid, so I thought I'd sort some stuff out while you were in there," he says cagily.

"How did you know for sure though that I wouldn't chance it?"

The man just looks at me for a long moment, eyes narrowing again. Then he gestures to the man on the bed, the movement swift, impatient. "You say you don't know this guy, right?" he asks, sounding pissed off.

I nod, confused.

"How did you meet him?"

"In a hospital" -

- "With your lil breadknife, yeah?"

"No."

"Your lil crowbar, then?"

"No," I lie, just for the hell of it.

"You're tellin' me you went into a hospital of all places with nothin' but your bare hands to defend yourself with?"

I just narrow my eyes at him as he narrows his even more until they're nothing but slits, then I nod again, spinning the lie out, enjoying enraging him with my apparent stupidity. "Then maybe you are dumb after all," the man says coldly.

"Oh really?" I say equally as coldly.

"Yes, really," the man retorts. "You're walkin' about with either nothin' or complete shit to protect yourself from the dead an' the livin', then you roll up to a hospital, a place that's probably _heavin' _with geeks, before pickin' up a total stranger who doesn't know the world has ended, who slows you down an' waves to the Walkers like they're his new best friend."

I just shrug my shoulders.

"Look at yourself, girl," he says exasperated. "You're trussed up like a Christmas turkey, completely at my mercy, all because you were too dumb to take care of yourself properly."

"Whatever," I spit. "I like being a turkey. It's better than being a chicken, isn't it?"

"I ain't callin' you a coward, girl," the man says, looking at like I'm crazy. "But there's a difference between bravery an' stupidity. Recklessness is just gonna lead to bein' ripped apart."

I just glare at him.

"How long you been out there?" the man then asks quietly.

"I don't know," I say slowly, "I've just been wandering about, trying to keep one step ahead of them, the... the Walkers."

"You lost track of time then?"

"It feels more like its lost track of me," I say honestly enough. "I was with my friend, but we got... I mean, I'm on my own now, apart from him on the bed."

"Is she dead?"

"It's a bloke," I say stupidly, thinking of the Doctor all besuited and side-burned, "I mean, my friend, he's a bloke, not a girl."

"Well, is _he_ dead?"

"He's just... gone."

"How many of 'em have you killed?"

"None," I reply, "prefer to run than fight."

The man just looks at me, and I can't decipher the expression in his eyes, whether it's contempt, grudging admiration or he thinks I'm just plain bonkers. "Runnin' is a good strategy," he then admits unwillingly.

"Well, I'm good at running," I say smartly. "I have done a _lot _of running in my time."

"What, recreational runnin' or runnin' for your life runnin'?"

"The latter," I reply, remembering all those times with the Doctor when I thought I'd had it; acid rain, Cybermen, volcanoes...

"How many people have you killed?" he then asks, startling me.

"Again, none," I say quietly, realising this is the million dollar question.

But he doesn't say anything else, just studying me, the candlelight flickering between life and oblivion around us.

_See these waters they'll pull you up_  
_Oh if you're bolder than the darkness_  
_My my, let these songs be an instrument to cut_  
_Oh spaces 'tween the happiness and the hardness..._


	7. No Man Is An Island

**No Man Is An Island **

_The stars are high above me. Doomed to die yesterday. Then I'm falling into darkness, sinking beneath the waves, hair billowing around my face like black banners, eyes like empty windows... _

I jolt awake like Frankenstein's creature, limbs jerking, the back of my head hitting something hard. I lie there for a long moment, staring up at the swooping pattern sweeping across the ceiling, before trying to get up, only to be yanked back like a yo-yo on a string. It takes a second for it to sink in, but the ache in my arms quickly drives the message home. The bastard's hamshackled me to the headboard, dumping me next to the man from the hospital.

Then a shadow falls across the bed, making me glance up sharply, somehow seeing the stranger with a sudden strange clarity: dark eyes with defences and drawbridges, stubble staining his skin, hands that tremble slightly, faded clothes reflecting his fading hope. I try to sit up, only to slump down again, before finally giving up; cursing myself for being so foolish as to think it was safe to fall asleep here, in this house, in this hell.

"What's the deal with tying me to the bed?" I ask, trying and failing to keep calm.

"Don't worry, you're safe," the man says dryly, "or as safe as you're ever gonna be in this world anyways."

"Why won't you untie my hands, then?" I spit, words almost but not quite becoming a whine.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I've met too many people just like you; seem okay on the surface, when they're really psychopaths underneath, only thinkin' of savin' their own skins," the man says quietly, silencing me. Then he stares at me, studying my face, like he's seeking something, something indefinable. Then he laughs, stunning me into further silence. "It's nuts, but I thought you were different," he says, stunning me all over again.

"How am I different?" I ask in astonishment.

"You said you found him in the hospital, that you didn't know him," the man says, jerking his head at the man lying on the bed beside me, "yet you saddled yourself with him; ready to lay your life down for him, choosin' not to escape because you wouldn't leave him behind. That's how I thought you were different. I thought you were good."

"I'm not good, pal, but I'm not exactly bad either," I point out from between gritted teeth. The man raises a sceptical eyebrow. "There are other survivors then? It's not just us?" I then ask, swiftly changing the subject, not in the mood to engage in a debate about modern morality. My soul is as dark as the Doctor's, but I have no blood on my hands like he does, and that's the difference between us.

"Yeah, there are other survivors, alright," the man says, jaw tightening. "Last one I had the misfortune to come across was up in Macon, a woman, ran a small turkey farm. She took us in, fed us an' everythin'. Next thin' I knew, she had a gun at my head, accusin' me of stealin' her jewellery - I mean, why would I steal her jewellery, huh? It ain't gonna feed me or my wife an' son, is it?"

"No, it isn't," I reply, curious at the mention of a wife, since I've not seen hide or hair of one.

"What's your name, girl?" he then says, startling me.

"Why do you want to know?" I retort, recovering myself.

He just shrugs his shoulders. "I'm Morgan, for all it's worth," he says self-deprecatingly.

Silence.

"I'm Vivien," I then say reluctantly.

"Vivien, huh?" Morgan says almost jovially. "Like the actress, yeah?" I just stare blankly at him. "Scarlett O'Hara? Fiddle-dee-dee?" he prompts. I look away, bored. "I'm not a fan either," he says, voice shaking slightly, "but my wife, she was a Clark Gable girl, absolutely adored his lil moustache" -

- "Whatever," I snap. "Just tell me where the hell I am."

"You're in King County, Georgia, USA, the United States of America," he says, spitting his words like bullets. "It's day sixty of the outbreak, two months on from the initial infection. On days thirty to thirty three, the gas lines stopped workin' an' my Jenny died. The world's goin', goin', gone, girl, an' it's takin' us with it."

* * *

My aching body shifts uncomfortably on the spot, mattress springs creaking in protest, rope now biting into my wrists. Beside me, the man continues to lie unconscious, face slack, mouth slightly open. But the blood's been scrubbed off his skin, his lower lip scabbing over, healing from where Duane hit him with the shovel. Then a shadow falls across the bed again. I glance up, scowling at the sight of Morgan staring down at me, clutching a glass of orange juice. His eyes are wide and almost anxious, making him look younger, more vulnerable, like Duane.

"Here, drink this," Morgan says gruffly, almost gently, the tone of his voice sitting at odds with what I remember of him; the gun aimed at my head, the knife held in front of my face. But I part my lips, thirst forcing me to obey as he tips the glass up and against my mouth, some of the juice spilling down my chin. But I swallow it with a terrible eagerness, my throat making its parched presence felt.

"Hey, hey, not so fast," Morgan admonishes, taking the glass away and putting it down on the bedside cabinet, beside the large green plastic bowl filled with water he used to wash his hands when he changed the man's bandage. "You'll make yourself even more ill, drinkin' all that on an empty stomach."

"Who are you? Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman!?" I snap, before catching myself. "I'm sorry," I then apologise, tensing up as he raises his eyebrows in that sceptical fashion again. "It's just... look, I just don't want any trouble, alright? Just let us go, and we'll be gone, I promise."

"I _can't_."

"I get that you have to protect your son," I say slowly from between gritted teeth, "but you don't attempt to gun down a sick man that can't speak for himself."

"I didn't though, did I? I brought him here, changed his bandage, cleaned him up" -

- "So what? Does that _exonerate _you or something" -

- "Shut up! Just shut the hell up!"

I just look at him, the corners of my lips curling contemptuously. "You're frightened, aren't you?" I say spitefully. "And you think flashing your piddly little flick-knife in my face makes you the big man, but here's a news-flash pal, I'm not frightened of you. In fact, I rather pity you. But most of all, I pity your son. You think you're frightened? He's absolutely terrified - terrified of you. You didn't see his face when you had your gun at my head. He was practically pissing his pants. And that's why I pity him because he's frightened of a coward, a bully" -

- "Shut up!"

"No I won't shut up! I'm just as frightened as you but you don't see me" -

- "Of course I'm frightened!" Morgan bellows. "Sometimes I look at myself in that mirror, an' I go, who are you, man? That ain't me, that ain't me, man. I don't recognize myself - it's as if some other guy's lookin' out of my eyes, lookin' at me, an' he's smilin' because I'm scared, because I'm completely shittin' myself. I ain't in my right mind, girl!"

"Who is, pal? The dead are walking, Morgan, actually _walking_!" I hurl at him. "You try wrapping your head round that one" -

A faint groan fills the air, making us both start violently, Morgan's hand flying instinctively to the gun in his belt as the man stirs uneasily beside me. For a terrible moment, I think he's one of them, but then his eyelids flicker open, almost reluctantly, revealing a glimpse of grey, life not death. Then a floorboard creaks, making Morgan and I jump all over again. But it's only Duane drifting in from the hall. Morgan exchanges a glance with his son before striding over to the man's side of the bed.

"You awake now?" he asks roughly, but not unkindly, much to my surprise. But the man just looks at him blearily. Then he glances around the room, passing over me like I don't exist, before doing a double-take, eyes widening with terror at the sight of my bound wrists.

"Yes, it's me, your worst nightmare," I say sarcastically, "dressed to thrill and licensed to kill."

"Shut up," Morgan snaps, looking at me like I'm insane. But the man just looks at Morgan as though he's insane. And I just look at Duane as though he's insane too, so he doesn't feel left out of the party. "Got that bandage changed now, it was pretty rank," Morgan then tries to say conversationally, resting a hand on the headboard as he shoots me a warning look to stop the wisecracks. "What was the wound?"

"Oh, please," I say, rolling my eyes, "put another record on."

"What was the wound?" Morgan repeats, ignoring me.

"Gunshot," the man says with some difficulty.

"Gunshot?" Morgan echoes sceptically.

"I told you he'd been shot," I spit.

"What, gunshot ain't enough?" the man snaps, startling me. I look down at him, wrong footed. He just looks back at me, eyebrows slightly raised, and for a second, I see the steel lining his soul. Then he jerks his head at the tartan blanket Morgan threw over me earlier. "Thought you were English?" he then asks coolly.

"What, you hoping for a Highland fling?" I say just as coolly. "Mind you, I've got a thing for blokes that wear kilts. Men in skirts are _hot_."

The man glances fearfully down at his own hemline, then at me, losing his cool. I shoot him a wink, winding him up even further. "Quit the side-show act, girl," Morgan interjects as the man tries and fails in his less than discreet attempt to edge away from me.

"It's not my fault if I look like one, is it?" I retort.

"Shut the hell up, girl!"

"Hey, don't talk to her like that," the man protests, forgetting to be repulsed as he rushes to my defence.

"Look, when _I _talk, _you_ listen, an' when _I_ ask, _you_ answer, right?" Morgan says, looming over the man. "Did you get bit?"

"Bit?"

"Bit, chewed, maybe scratched," Morgan continues. "Anythin' like that?"

The man looks at him, puzzled.

"Well, answer the goddamn question!" Morgan shouts, making us all jump for the umpteenth time.

"I was shot, alright!" the man shouts back. "Just shot as far as I know - does that answer your goddamn question?!"

There's a long moment of silence. Then Morgan's hand suddenly shoots out, making the man and myself jerk back in tandem. "Hey," Morgan says quietly, sounding almost human for a moment, "just let me." He presses the palm of his hand against the man's forehead, then his fist, testing the man's temperature. "Seems cool enough," Morgan says over his shoulder to Duane, who drifts deeper into the room, hesitant but curious all at once.

"Bow-ties are cool," I mutter under my breath, earning another round of consternated glances.

Morgan looks back down at the man. "Fever would have killed you by now," he says briskly, before glancing at me instead, eyes flickering speculatively over my face.

"I don't think I have one," the man says, confused.

"Be hard to miss," Morgan says even more briskly, before leaning over the man and laying the flat of his hand against my forehead. I shy away like a nervous horse, making Morgan address me as though I was one. "Steady, girl," he says, "I'm just checkin'."

"Like a fricking check-out girl" -

I abruptly shut up as Morgan pulls out his flick-knife. With a swift flourish of the wrist, he snaps it open, the click echoing through the air. The man doesn't move a muscle, but I can feel the tension radiating from him. "Take a moment, see how sharp it is," Morgan says, leaning forwards, the tip of the blade perilously close to the man's eyeball, "you try anythin', I will kill you with it, an' don't you think I won't."

The man doesn't say anything. He just stares up at Morgan, blue eyes baleful, jaw clenched. Then Morgan does the impossible. He leans round the back of the man, cutting his cords, before doing the same for me. The man and I exchange glances, bewilderment meeting disbelief. As Morgan ushers Duane out of the room, he looks over his shoulder at us, saying almost civilly, "Come on out when you're ready." I force myself to nod my head curtly in acknowledgement, and then they're gone, disappearing through the doorway.

I just lie there, body rooted to the mattress, massaging my wrists, mind going into rollercoaster mode again. The undead. The Doctor. An empty house, a family gone. Morgan. Duane. All parts of a puzzle that don't fit together, only connected by a time machine, a lost girl and a stranger who woke up after the world ended.

The man curls up into a ball, his whole body trembling. "Are you alright?" I ask gruffly, knowing damn well he isn't, but he just nods, giving me the lie. I sit up, the tartan blanket slipping down into my lap. Swinging my shaky legs over the side of the bed, I attempt to stand up, only to bury my face in my hands, trying to hold it together and spectacularly failing.

"You alright?" the man asks quietly.

I get to my feet, stumbling away from the man and his concern. "Yeah, I'm fine, I'm great," I mutter, wiping my eyes roughly with the inside of my wrist. The man gets to his own feet, swaying slightly as he tries to recover his equilibrium. I turn on the spot, searching for a mirror. There's a dressing table in the corner. I stagger over to it, stooping down to see my reflection. Still haggard, still filthy, still me. I straighten up, turning to face the man instead.

"What's your name?" I ask bluntly.

He contemplates me for a moment, before answering. "Rick," he answers, "Rick Grimes."

"Well, I'm Vivien, Vivien Holmes," I say, feeling fucking foolish at how formal I sound. He just nods. I just nod as well. It would be stupid to say it's nice to meet him, because it isn't. He looks round the room, then at me again.

"You said the dead were walking," he says bluntly.

"Well, they're hardly doing ballet, are they?"

Rick just turns away from me, hunching his shoulders. I turn away from him in turn, fighting the urge to punch something, preferably his face. "Who are these people anyways?" he asks quietly, changing the subject.

"Some father and son double act," I reply, creeping over to the window, the floorboards creaking under my torn trainers. "You think I'm crazy? The dad's even worse. He's a complete fruitcake. You got a taste of it there with his little Reservoir Dogs routine."

"Has he... has he hurt you?" This time he turns round, face drawn, fists clenching and unclenching, and I realise what he's driving at.

"No, he didn't," I say sullenly, tucking a loose tendril of hair behind my ear.

"Why did he shackle you to the bed then?"

"Why did he shackle _you_ to the bed?" I fire back.

Rick stares at me in disbelief. "How can you stand there and act like this is nothing?" he says, gesturing angrily at me. "We're trapped in this house with a mad-man, my wife and son missing, the dead supposedly walking" -

- "Supposedly?" I say sceptically, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, _supposedly_," Rick retorts, stepping forwards so he's right in my face, his eyes boring into mine, blue battling blue. But I stand my ground, unperturbed, something which seems to irk him, and I'm suddenly reminded of myself trying to make men break, just because I could, not taking no for an answer.

"The dead _are _walking, Rick," I then say quietly.

"I don't think so."

"Then what was that we seen back at where we picked up the bike!? Back at the hospital!?" I spit. "An optical illusion? A trick of the light? This isn't Halloween, pal. This is real life, and the sooner you accept that, the better."

"You're just talking bullshit now," Rick says, shaking his head, denying me, denying the truth. Outside he believed, but in here, it's now a whole different story, back to the beginning, once upon a time, a happy ending on the horizon when in reality it's all just a lie, a delusion, an illusion.

"It's better that I talk bullshit, than putting a bullet through your skull, isn't it?" I say, voice cracking despite myself. "If there are other people out there, they're not going to be like me, taking you by the hand, trying to help you. They're not going to be like him across the hall either - they're going to be ten times worse than him, like every nightmare you've ever had rolled into one. That's why we have to trust each other. He's trusting us by cutting us loose, so we have to meet him halfway."

But Rick just shakes his head, before turning and striding out of the room, limping as he goes, the hem of his hospital gown flapping ridiculously around his ankles. I just stand there, seething, before going over to the wardrobe and pulling open the doors. I rifle through what's on offer, middle-aged mediocrity, before slamming the door shut, my hands shaking as I stare at my reflection in the full-length built-in mirror. Hair black as night. Lips red as blood. Skin white as snow. Eyes filled with the sky. Snow White, dead and alive all at once. This is who I am, but what I am, is something they must never know. With one last glance at the girl in the mirror, I turn away from the truth, gilding my tongue with lies, forging a future founded on falsehood.

* * *

_There's a light upon this house on a hill_  
_The living, living still..._

With trembling legs, I make my way down the dark hall. Not sure where to go, I head towards a half open door, soft light spilling out from behind it. I press my palms against the whitewashed wood, before pushing the door open, hesitating in the doorway as my gaze meets Rick's. He's standing awkwardly to the left of an archway of sorts, a white blanket wrapped around him like a shawl, making him look like rather biblical, what with the beard and bare feet. I nod at him, trying to bridge the breach between us, but he just turns his back on me again.

"Same to you," I mutter, stepping into the room, making Morgan look up, startled.

"Oh, it's you," he says, sounding less than pleased to see me.

"Yes, it's me," I say, shoulders hunching, fists curling into balls.

"Did you blow out the candles an' put out the lamps?" he asks abruptly.

"No," I say testily.

For a moment, Morgan looks like he's going to explode, but he just exhales sharply instead. "Duane, son, go an' put out the lights," he says. Duane stares at his dad, lower lip thrust out defiantly, then he turns and stomps out of the room, muttering mutinously all the while under his breath. Morgan watches him go, before continuing to lay the table, carefully setting down plates and cutlery, examining their surfaces with a critical eye.

As he picks up a spoon, the movement measured and careful, dark eyes studying the silver intently for the slightest stain, I study him in turn; the hunch of his shoulders, the trembling of his fingers, the lines etched across his skin. But somehow my gaze finds Rick's instead, and I falter, wrong footed by the disapproving expression in his eyes. Then Duane comes back, entering the room at great speed before skidding to a halt, rumpling up a rug as he goes. Rick looks away, and I stare at the floorboards, confused, then resentful at being reduced to the level of a child.

Slowly but surely, I raise my gaze from the ground again, only to find Rick staring at me again. But this time round, his eyes are inscrutable, unreadable. Then he suddenly turns and shuffles through the archway beside him, disappearing from sight. I follow him, despite myself, curiosity getting the better of me. As Rick wanders over to one of the shrouded windows, I turn slowly and unsteadily on the spot, taking in my surroundings. Lamps and lanterns lie scattered on various surfaces, illuminating the area with a soft glow. Comfy looking armchairs fill the corners, one laden with suitcases and plastic bags, another surrounded by tins and cans stacked up in irregular piles, a portable cooking stove lying amongst them. Then Morgan appears in the archway, face suspicious.

"What are you up to?" he asks, aiming his accusation at me, as though Rick isn't snooping about as well.

"Just admiring the decor," I say smartly.

But before Morgan can say anything back, Rick cuts across him. "This place," he says with a frown, "this was Fred and Cindy Drake's house."

"Never met 'em," Morgan replies, turning away from Rick.

"I've been here," Rick argues, stepping forwards. "This is their place."

"It was empty when we got here," Morgan snaps, whirling around. "Everybody was gone."

Rick just stares at Morgan for a second, before tugging the edges of his blanket closer around his shoulders, turning away from us all. As he wanders back over to the window, I suddenly remember him curled up on the floorboards, howling like an animal. And as though from far away, I remember being washed up on the shores of another world, having to drag myself along miles of isolated coast until I reached alien civilisation.

I remember sitting in the dark corner of a pub, the tears rolling down my face, telling Jack I wanted to forget; the terrible look in his eyes as he pushed the glass of Scotch across the table, saying in that deceptively lazy drawl of his, '_here, drown your sorrows, it always works for me_,' before pulling out a bottle of bourbon from the inside of his military coat.

But most of all, I remember the Doctor, the darkness in his eyes as he said, _l__ife and death, death and life, death is life. Two points of time and space that should never be... _the dead descending on us, dividing us; the TARDIS departing, deserting us. The horror, the fear, the grief; the nights spent in houses that used to be homes, door handles being turned by rotting fingers. Scavenging, searching, surviving. Being lost, lost innocence and lost lives. In all these moments, everything and everyone was gone and my knees buckle under me, Morgan grabbing my arm, catching me before I fall.

"Jesus, you alright?" he asks worriedly.

"What's wrong with her?" Rick asks, staggering over as I struggle to stay upright.

"This world is what's wrong with her," Morgan snaps, turning and steering me back through the archway, Rick trailing behind us like a lost soul. "She's gone through too much, an' the body can only cope with so much. Call it nervous exhaustion or whatever you like, but she needs to rest, man, not standin' around like a fool, dead on her feet."

He ushers me to one of the chairs rigged up round the rickety table, all but forcing me to sit down. As I watch him fuss over the forks, it finally hits me that we owe him our lives, even as he threatened to end them. "Sit down," Morgan instructs, gesturing impatiently at Rick and Duane who are still standing. Duane proceeds to sit down at the head of the table, assuming a lofty magnanimous attitude. Morgan sits down opposite me, his eye catching mine for a second, before we both look away, Morgan turning his head in Rick's direction again. "I said, sit down," Morgan repeats, trying and failing spectacularly to be civil.

Rick scowls at being spoken to like a dog, before shuffling over to the table, pulling out a chair and throwing himself down onto it. Morgan studies him for a moment, eyes narrowing. Then he leans over the table, picking up a large silver Thermos flask wrapped up in a tea-towel, using the cloth like an oven glove. As he puts the flask down beside his plate, I take in the rest of the table. A fancy looking faux antique black lantern beams out a soft glow. Next to it, is a small pot with an ebony handle, the smell of meat cooking escaping tantalisingly from beneath its lid. The pot itself is placed on top of some sort of metal stand, something I don't recognize.

"It's a sternowarmer," Morgan explains, catching my confused expression, "keeps already warm food warm" -

- "Your friend, Vivien," Rick says suddenly, startling us all, "Is - is he dead?" His words hang in the air, spreading, corrupting, infecting. I stare down at my plate, fingers curling up into claws out of sight under the table. "You - you said you were with someone," Rick continues, voice rising an octave, losing his cool, his control, "that you got separated" -

- "Calm down, man," Morgan says coldly, "gettin' hysterical ain't goin' to help anyone here, is it?" Rick swallows hard, choking down his hysteria, the taste bitter on his tongue. He looks resentfully at Morgan, who just ignores him, calmly lifting the lid of the pot instead, and peering inside it, brow furrowing. "Hmm, it might need a minute or so before it's ready," Morgan says thoughtfully to no-one in particular. "Needs to be heated up properly, you know?" He smiles at his scared son, who just stares at him with wide eyes. I resume staring at my plate, my fingernails now digging into my palms, hating Rick for making me remember, forcing me to face what I'm trying to forget.

Morgan puts the lid back on the pot, taking his sweet time about it. Then he sighs heavily, brow furrowing even further. "You two need to watch out for the dogs out there," Morgan says quietly, this sudden shift in the conversation startling us all. "They hunt in packs like wolves, attackin' the dead but most of all the livin'. Seen it happen to a guy up near Jonesboro. Dogs just took him down like he was a deer. The owners are long gone, so they just turn feral, survival of the fittest an' all that shit."

Rick's jaw tightens, plainly refusing to believe that man's best friend has become man's worst enemy. But then his shoulders slump and he rests his forehead on his hand, the gesture signalling defeat. I stare back down at my plate again, not wanting to see, to know, whilst wondering why Morgan's trying to cut me a break. Then I jump, almost startled out of my skin as Duane thrusts a glass tumbler into my face. "Sorry," he chirps, shoving the tumbler into my hand instead.

Involuntarily, I glance at Morgan, heart twisting in my chest as he smothers a smile, amused at his son's antics. Feeling the tips of my ears turning crimson, I pretend to study the pattern engraved round its rim. Then I realise it's not a pattern but a message, _remember Paris_, _xoxo_. I quickly put the glass back down on the table, hands shaking. This is all that's left of Fred and Cindy Drake, a house filled with meaningless ephemera, artefacts of a life long gone. They probably saved these glasses for special occasions, toasting each other on anniversaries, their eyes meeting across the dinner table, maybe remembering Paris at midnight, or the sun setting over the Seine.

Everything and everyone is _gone_.

The Doctor. The TARDIS fading into forever. Rick's family. Morgan's wife. Myself lost in a world that shouldn't be. I wipe my eyes roughly with the inside of my wrist as Rick looks away, resting his forehead on his hand again. Morgan leans over the table, pouring some water into my glass. My gaze meets his for a moment and I stand up, pushing my chair away from the table, just wanting to run, to go, to get the hell out of here.

"Sit down, Vivien," Morgan says quietly, nonplussed.

I shake my head. He doesn't understand. He can't.

"There's nowhere to run, girl," Morgan says, voice rising, "so sit the hell down."

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because I won't, I just won't!"

Silence.

"You know," Morgan says slowly, studying me as I stand there, ready to run, "I never took you for a coward, girl. But I guess I was wrong, eh? You're just another piece of ass waitin' for your knight in shinin' armour to come ridin' to the rescue, because you're too scared to save your own ass" -

- "I don't need anybody to save me; I can take care of myself!"

"Really?" Morgan says, sounding bored now.

"Yes, really!" I fire back. "So stuff your chair up your arse, and get the hell out of my face!"

"I'd rather you just sit down, so we can get on with dinner."

"Fine!"

I throw myself back down onto the chair, chest heaving with impotent rage.

"Thank you," Morgan says, almost but not quite sarcastically, "is there anythin' else you'd like to say, while you're up on your high horse?"

"No," I retort. But then he makes the mistake of raising his eyebrows, the scepticism of his expression striking me right to the core, making me leap out of my seat again, ready to make a break for it, come hell or high water.

"For God's sake, girl, just keep your ass on the goddamn chair!" Morgan exclaims, slamming the table with his fist, making Duane jump about nearly two feet in the air, the impact of hand meeting wood making the water in the tumblers tremble. But I just flip Morgan the middle finger, no longer caring about the niceties, about trying to build bridges and meeting him halfway. I'm going, gone, and I turn to leave, ready to do a runner.

"Vivien, please!" Rick hisses, the venom in his voice making me whirl around in anger, ready to lash out at him again as well. But the expression in his eyes makes me falter, the depth of emotion present in them confusing me. For a moment, he looks like he cares, like he actually gives a damn, and I don't understand why he should. I'm nothing to him, nothing at all. "Just... just sit down," he says tiredly, and to my surprise, I do, flinging myself back down into my seat again, folding my arms defiantly across my chest as I throw him a dirty look that he just ignores.

There's an awkward silence, then Morgan sighs heavily, running his hand over his face. "Rule number one, girl, is keep quiet out there and in here," Morgan then says, looking round at us all, "sound draws 'em like flies, an' now they're all over the street." He picks up his fork, before putting it back down again, eyes scrunching up. "It was stupid usin' that gun out there today, but it happened so fast, I didn't think..." He pauses for a moment, before looking directly at me. "That's why you better quit tryin' to break out of this house, cos you ain't gonna get very far, not with all these geeks out there."

"I-can-protect-myself!" I spit, enunciating every word with clipped precision.

"With what? A tea spoon? Cutlery ain't gonna cut it, girl! You can't defend yourself against 'em usin' silverware; it ain't werewolves we're dealin' with" -

- "You shot that man, today," Rick interrupts, stunning us all.

"A man?!" I say in disbelief.

_"Man?" _Morgan echoes, attention shifting from me to Rick.

"It weren't no man," Duane says, sort of shoogling his shoulders and head sideways for extra emphasis.

"What the hell was that out of your mouth just now?" Morgan demands, making me stare at him. The world is coming to an end, and he's correcting his son's speech.

"Talk about getting your priorities in the wrong order," I mutter under my breath, nobody paying me any heed for once.

"It _wasn't _a man," Duane says, sounding oddly posh.

"You shot him in the street out front, a _man_," Rick continues, regardless of the elocution lesson taking place under his nose.

"Friend, you need glasses," Morgan says, frowning at Rick.

"And a sharp dose of reality," I add for good measure, making Rick get to his feet, striking an almost biblical pose as he stares accusingly at Morgan and me, as though he's about to smite us both down. "Rick, please!" I gasp, feigning outrage, parodying his earlier plea.

"Hey, that's enough," Morgan snaps, glaring at me, before turning to face Rick again. "Come on, sit down," he says, not unkindly, but Rick remains resolutely rooted on the spot, his jaw tightening. "Sit down, before you fall down," Morgan says again, an edge creeping into his voice as he removes the lid from the small pot on the sternowarmer, stirring its contents with a wooden spoon, the smell making my stomach rumble again.

"What's in the pot?" I ask suspiciously.

"Canned stew," Morgan replies, ladling some of it onto my plate, "stewed steak to be precise, mixed up with some onion an' potato. Normally, I make it with parsnip an' Swede, maybe some carrots an' leeks, with a little bit of celery an' lentils flung in, but I had to make do with what we've got at hand, which ain't much, in terms of variety."

"What about some stock cubes for flavour?" I say, forgetting myself.

"Normally, I'd use that too," Morgan replies, "but again, I have to use what I've got, not what I don't."

"The onion will give it a bit of a kick though, won't it?" I say, sniffing the air appreciatively.

"Precisely, why I put it in," Morgan says, starting to sound pissed off.

I pick up my fork, ready to tuck in, when Rick speaks, making my hand freeze in mid-air. "Can I have some... please?" Rick asks, almost unwillingly.

"Yeah, you can," Morgan replies. But he doesn't make any move to give him any. The two men look at each other, the corner of Morgan's mouth quirking downwards, Rick's jaw tightening again. I just stare at them, fork still hovering in mid-air. "Here," Morgan then says roughly, almost chucking the stew onto Rick's plate. Rick then deigns to sit down, with almost indecent haste

As Morgan ladles out some more stew for himself and his son, Rick pulls his plate towards him, snatching up his fork, ready to dig in. I follow his example, only to be halted by Duane as he shoots me a stern sidelong glance, before turning to his father and saying, "Daddy, blessin'." Rick slams his fork back down on his plate, looking extremely put out at the prospect of prayer, which sits at odds with his biblical appearance. I put down my own fork, albeit more quietly.

"Okay, son, we'll perform a blessin'," Morgan agrees, throwing Rick a dirty look. He then proceeds to take his son's hand, with Duane taking mine in turn. Rick just sits there, looking annoyed. Duane looks at him, jerking his head at Rick's hand, and then me, as though to say, _come on, man, join the party._ Rick's jaw tightens again, looking like he's trying to stop himself saying something he'll regret. But then he stretches his hand out, and I take it, Morgan taking Rick's other hand, closing his eyes as he does so.

"Lord, we thank thee for this food, thy blessin's," Morgan intones, opening his eyes, almost glaring at us each in turn, "an' we ask you to watch over us in these crazy days. Amen."

"Amen," Duane echoes.

Morgan stares pointedly at me, and I hastily mutter an amen as well, trying to make it sound as sincere as possible. But it seems to satisfy Morgan, and he switches his stare from me to Rick, silently pressurising him to say amen too, but Rick keeps quiet, focusing on his plate with a desperate eagerness that almost makes me laugh despite everything. Like father like son, Duane shoots Rick a dirty look, before letting go of Morgan's hand, then mine. I hastily let go of Rick's hand. Morgan does the same, and Rick takes this as permission to tuck in, falling on his food with unashamed greed.

I sort of hesitate before snatching up my fork again, stuffing the stew down my throat as fast as I can, burning the roof of my mouth. Then my eye catches Morgan's, and my fork falters in mid-air at the inscrutable expression in his eyes. But all he does is ladle some more stew onto our plates, watching with some concern as we pounce on it, ravenous as wolves.

"Fanks," I say, cramming a piece of potato into my mouth. "This is bwilliant gwub, man."

"Yes, fank you," Rick agrees, his mouth equally full. "It's delithis."

Morgan just nods, before resuming eating, Duane dining with a deliberate fastidiousness. I continue to stuff the stew down my throat as fast as I can, Rick following my example with fervent enthusiasm. Living hand to mouth led to hot food becoming the stuff of legend, yet here I am, devouring an actual _cooked_ _meal. _I shove the last forkful of potato and onion into my mouth, before looking hopefully at Morgan for more, but he shakes his head, gesturing regretfully at the now empty pot. I put my fork down, unable to stop my face falling. Morgan stares at me for a moment, and then he suddenly looks away, almost guiltily. Rick catches the tail end of this exchange, glancing down at his empty plate with disappointment.

Undeterred, I pick up my own plate, licking its surface clean like a dog, a habit unfortunately picked up from the Doctor. Somebody clears their throat pointedly. I slowly lower my plate, only to see Rick, his face mortified; Duane, his eyes round as saucers. But when my gaze meets Morgan's, I finally put my plate properly back down on the table, feeling the first unfamiliar stirrings of shame.

"Sorry," I mumble.

Morgan studies me for a moment. "God, girl, your face," Morgan then says with great difficulty, before suddenly burying his face in his hands, a strange choking sound emanating from his throat. For a moment, we all just sit there, watching his shoulders heave, until it hits us that he's actually _laughing._ After a minute or so of inexplicable mirth, he finally deigns to raise his head from his hands."Duane, son," Morgan wheezes, clutching his sides in an exaggerated fashion, "go an' get the tins of pineapple chunks, will you?"

Duane dabs his mouth carefully with his napkin, before getting out of his seat with exaggerated decorum. My gaze dares to meet Morgan's again, and to my surprise, he grins, a rusty, reluctant grin, but a grin nonetheless. And to my even greater surprise, I find myself grinning back.

_And no man is an island, oh this I know_  
_But can't you see, oh?_


	8. Drifting

**Drifting**

I help Morgan drag the mattress in from the bedroom, heaving it across the floor before dumping it down into a corner, the impact kicking up a cloud of dust. I crouch down on my haunches, slightly winded by the effort, Morgan disappearing through the doorway that leads out into the hall, muttering something about 'blankets'. It's odd how we've now reached this tense middle ground, especially when considering how it all began. Morgan might believe it's the living against the living, but he seems to be seeing now that it doesn't always have to be that way. But I can also see what it's costing him to trust us, when he doesn't know whether we can be trusted or not.

Morgan stalks back into the room, arms now laden with blankets and pillows. I straighten up as he chucks them unceremoniously down onto the mattress. "That should do you both," he says brusquely.

"Thanks," I say just as brusquely, eying the maelstrom of bedding with some trepidation.

"Do you want a hand with sorting that?" Rick asks, coming up from the side, startling me.

"No, it's alright," I reply tersely, "but while you're here, you can pick what bit of the bed you want. Right or left, top or bottom?"

"What, we're sharing?"

"Don't worry, your virtue is safe with me," I say sarcastically as I stoop down, ready to wrestle the sheets into submission. Rick just shakes his head before retreating back to his chair, shoulders hunched slightly.

* * *

I kick off my torn trainers, before sitting down, leaning my back against the wall, trying to ignore my aching muscles as I draw my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. I risk a sideways glance at Rick, but he just ignores me, trying to pretend I'm not present. We're sitting side by side on the mattress, the springs creaking in protest every time we so much as blink, Rick practically falling off the edge in his attempts to put as much distance between us as possible. It would be laughable if it wasn't so tragic.

"So, Carl... He's your son?" Morgan then asks, shattering the silence.

Rick looks up, face confused.

"You said his name today," Morgan says, sounding irritated now.

Rick takes a deep breath, like he's steadying himself. "He's a little younger than your boy," he says with some difficulty, unconsciously wrapping his blanket more tightly around his shoulders, clinging to the fabric like a life-belt.

"An' he's with his mother?" Morgan presses.

"I... I hope so," Rick says, looking away, grey eyes filled with grief. Without thinking, I grab his hand, but he yanks it away, the silence so sharp it cuts my heart in half like paper. Morgan clears his throat, looking awkward, Duane burying his head in his comic book. Rick averts his face, and I avert mine. He's not the Doctor, and I'm not his wife. The time for holding hands at the end of the world is over.

"Dad," Duane then asks tentatively, still not looking up from his comic book.

"Hey," Morgan says, seizing the chance to change the subject. "What's up, son?"

"Did you ask him?" Duane says, voice gaining confidence now. "About how he got shot?"

Rick raises his head, looking faintly rankled.

"We've got a little bet goin' on," Morgan explains, smiling rustily now, "my boy says you're a bank robber."

Rick stares at the pair of them for a long moment, his gaze dwelling on Duane the longest, before forcing a grin on his face. "Yeah... that's me," Rick says, "Deadly as Dillinger. _Kapow_." He mimes shooting Duane with his finger, making the little boy crease up with laughter, Morgan ruffling up his son's hair. But then his gaze meet's Morgan's, the false grin fading from his face. "Sheriff's deputy," he says quietly by way of real explanation.

Morgan just nods, something flickering behind his dark eyes that I can't understand. "What about you, girl?" Morgan fires at me, making me tense up. "How did you end up in this hell-hole?"

"I was travelling, with my friend," I say stiffly.

"Gap year?"

"Make it more like running away from reality," I say bitterly.

"A sabbatical from life then?"

"Something like that."

Silence.

"So what were you before?" Morgan presses, making me tense up even further, wishing he'd just back the hell off.

"Toilet attendant."

"Family?"

"They're gone. Well before all this happened."

"What, you had kids?"

"Yeah, I did, and now they're dead," I snap, "anything else you'd like to know? Like how I tried to top myself? Or how I ran off with another man on my wedding day? Or that the moon really is made of cheese, but if you tried to eat it, it would turn you green?"

Duane laughs nervously, Morgan just staring at me like I'm a complete fruitcake. Then a car alarm screams into existence, making us all nearly piss ourselves in terror. When the shock recedes, it's only to find Rick clinging to me like we're teenagers at a drive-in, Morgan clutching his son to his chest, trying to calm him down. "Hey, it's okay, Daddy's here," Morgan soothes, leaning his cheek against his son's, tightening his arms around him.

"What the hell was that?" I demand, disentangling myself from Rick.

"It's nothing," Morgan says more to himself than me, his gaze riveted almost unseeingly on the boarded up window.

I get shakily to my feet, sensing something is going down, something he's not telling us about. "Sit the hell back down," Morgan hisses as he glances sharply at me, his gaze then being drawn back to the window again.

"Not until you tell me what the hell's going on," I hiss back.

"One of them must've bumped a car, that's all," Morgan says, not meeting my eyes, "it happened before."

_It happened before. _And whatever it was is happening again. Without a word, I start snuffing out the candles filling the room with their flickering light, instinctively sensing the darkness will shelter us from whatever is stalking the shadows outside. Morgan gets to his own feet, Rick following suit, Duane hastily reaching up to the small cabinet beside his mattress, his trembling fingers turning the flame down on his hurricane lamp, a small faint whistling noise emanating from it as he does so.

As Morgan creeps over to the window, Rick close at his heels, I blow out the rest of the candles, heart beating like a drum in my chest. Duane wraps his arms around his head, almost in expectation of a mortal blow. I straighten up as Morgan undoes one of the safety pins that clip the two bits of fabric serving as a makeshift curtain together, his action creating a peep-hole. Clutching a fistful of fabric, he peers through one of the gaps between the planks of wood, midnight striking his face, making it almost unrecognizable in the dim gloom.

"It's the blue car," Morgan says to Rick, moving aside to let Rick see, "same one as last time." Rick looks through the gap, squinting slightly, before hastily stepping back, making me step forwards, Duane watching me with wide eyes.

I grab a handful of the grey coarse fabric, the material almost bobbly to the touch, and I hold it away from my face as I watch the wreckage of the world outside, staring as six or seven of what Morgan calls Walkers shamble about in the road out front, the car alarm still blaring, amber lights flashing in erratic accompaniment.

"I think we're okay," Morgan says uneasily, glancing worriedly at his son. But still I stand there, watching as one of the Walkers tilts its head back, staring up at the sky, something like a slack-jawed wonder spreading across its ravaged face at the sight of the stars high above it.

"God help us," I whisper to myself.

"Ain't nothin' gonna help us now, girl," Morgan says quietly, running his hand over his severely strained face.

"That noise, won't it bring more of them?" Rick asks nervously.

"Oh, you finally deciding to join the party now?" I snap.

"Let it go," Morgan growls.

"Why should I? It's not you that's had to listen to his whining about the world ending," I say cruelly, enjoying making Rick cringe with the whiplash of my words.

"Nothin' we can do about the noise, not now," Morgan says, ignoring me. "Just have to wait it out till mornin'."

I nearly scream as something brushes past me, but when I look down, I see it's just Duane. He undoes the bottom safety pin, creating a peep-hole at his own height. Without thinking, I rest my hand on his shoulder, sensing his fear. In return, he puts a small hand over mine, clinging to it. The Walkers are now surrounding the car, more appearing from all directions, staggering into view from both ends of the street. Duane's now clinging so hard to my hand, he's physically hurting me, his nails biting into my flesh. He seems to be looking for something...

Or someone...

Then a woman shuffles across the road, the straps of her white night-dress slipping off her decaying shoulders, the sight of her making Duane gasp sharply in shock. She wanders almost aimlessly towards the car, an almost smile playing on her twisted lips, dark hair sticking up in a wild cloud around her sunken face. Yet there is still a human quality to her features; you can still see who she used to be, and it's who she was that stabs me through the heart, the pieces of Morgan and Duane's broken existence falling into place.

"She's here," Duane says in a low voice, letting go of my hand, a sense of something almost like welcome in his words.

"Don't look," Morgan says, his own voice choked now. "Get away from the window."

I try to steer Duane away as the woman heads towards the house, because he doesn't need to see this, what used to be coming back to what is no more. But he refuses to budge, holding his ground.

"I said go!" Morgan snaps.

Duane tears himself out of my grip, running across the room before throwing himself face down onto his mattress, sobbing his heart out. As Morgan goes to comfort his son, Rick glances at me, then the front door, both of us thinking the same thing. But it's me that makes the deciding move, heading hesitantly towards the front door, dragging my bare feet as I go, not wanting to face what should never be faced. I swallow hard, before placing my hands against the wooden panelling, fixing one eye to the peep-hole, feeling the oddly reassuring warmth of Rick's breath on the back of my neck.

The woman comes up the porch steps, still wearing that almost smile, the hem of her night-dress trailing behind her like some gruesome wedding dress. She takes one step at a time, empty eyes focused on the door, her vacant gaze never leaving it. She looks like she is coming home, and in a way she almost is. I glance over my shoulder at Morgan and Duane, at those she still remembers, an atom of memory that must flicker in and out of existence as she wanders the streets, hunger driving her on in her hopeless search for human flesh.

I peer again through the peep-hole, the woman now right outside the door, staring up at something to the right. Is it the doorbell that's captured her attention so? Close-up, I see her eyes are brown, the exact same shade as Duane's, but they're flecked with red, scarlet scars scarring her sight, with deep hollows outlining her eyes, carving the canvass of her face into a skull. Then the woman's head darts forwards like a snake, then from side to side, those terrible eyes flickering from left to right, as though looking for something like her son was looking for her. Her gaze focuses on the door again, as though she can see me, despite the door dividing us.

The woman cranes her neck forwards, mouth hanging open slightly, almost pendulously, practically nose to nose with me. Then she tilts her head to the side, looking almost coy as she drops her gaze to the ground. I watch as her mouth starts to open and shut in a weird fluctuating manner, almost like she's trying to talk. Then a flash of movement catches my eye, as another Walker ascends the porch, moving like an automaton, cutting a sharp contrast to the way the woman is now acting, full of insidious intent.

This contrast is strongly and suddenly emphasized by a faint rattling. I glance down, only to see the impossible. The door handle is turning from side to side, a reminder of other nights spent in other houses not my home, the dead on the doorstep, and I back away, unable to take anymore, brushing past Rick as I retreat to the mattress instead. Rick risks a glance through the peep-hole, before beating his own hasty retreat, huddling beside me like a scared child, his eyes wide and frightened. The door handle continues to twist and turn, and as we sit there, watching, waiting, I wonder what she is; a mother trying to find her family, or a monster hunting her prey?

_You who do not remember_  
_Passage from the other world_  
_I tell you I could speak again: whatever_  
_returns from oblivion returns_  
_to find a voice_

* * *

The car alarm continues to scream on, but the door handle has now fallen mercifully still. But still we sit there like statues, still staring at the door, still watching, still waiting. Then I ruse myself, forcing myself to focus, to get a grip.

"Morgan," I say quietly, making his head snap up. "That woman..."

"My Jenny."

"Your wife?"

"She..." Morgan begins, bowing his head, "she died in the other room, on that bed there." He gestures to the mattress Rick and I are sitting on. "There was nothin' I could do about it - that fever, man, her skin gave off a heat like a furnace." At this, Duane lets out a choked sob, and Morgan speaks no more for a few moments, holding his son close to him instead.

Then he lifts his head, dark eyes etched with agony, making my heart contract painfully in my chest. "I should've put her down, man, I should've put her down," he whispers, "I know that, but..." He looks down at Duane, before glancing up again, almost like he's challenging us, daring us to dispute his decision. "She's the mother of my child, so I couldn't. I just couldn't," he says like a litany, a prayer, prey for the dead.

* * *

"Wake up, Vivien. Wake up!"

I jolt upwards, hand reaching for a weapon I no longer have; for a man long gone. Then I slump against the headboard, heart hammering in my chest. It takes a long moment for reality to reassert itself, and even then, it's still not making any sense. Head spinning, I look around, only to see I'm back in the bedroom, the one Morgan's wife died in. Confused beyond measure now, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, before creeping across the floor, the wooden boards cold against my bare feet as the hem of my night-dress trails behind me like an ivory ghost in the darkness.

I make my way into the hall, only to be confronted by the sight of half a dozen doors either half open or half closed. I push open the nearest one, before stepping into the silent living room, the furniture draped with shadows, the curtains drawn and the front door locked, both bare of the planks of wood Morgan nailed across them. Then the door handle starts to turn, like somebody is trying to get in, and I run over to the door, pressing my eye to the peep-hole, hands resting against the wooden panelling as I watch what I used to love, a man long gone, his face horribly ravaged, floppy dark hair hanging over his sunken eyes in bloodstained limp strands.

He continues to turn the handle, stooping as he does so, his bow-tie ridiculously askew at his throat. But then he raises his gaze to the peep-hole, tilting his head to the side, the movement swift, snake-like, and I know he knows I'm here, waiting for him like I always do. But he's too late, like he's always too late. He knew she was going to die, and he just stood there and let it happen. And it was the same with the baby, he just stood there, time immemorial itself, and that's why I never let him in, why I lock him out, why I cling to his ghost, the one who didn't want to go, because he wasn't there, because he wouldn't have done what he was about to do.

Then something tugs at my hand, making me glance down. Half her face is decayed, her eye hanging out, mouth lopsided, the skin pulled back from her lips, exposing her baby teeth and the gaps where they've fallen out, her blonde hair, bloodstained, matted. But the other half of her face is whole, normal, questioning almost, and I back away from her, for this is not my daughter, this is not my child, of my blood, my bone -

"Wake up, Vivien. Wake up!"


	9. Maelstrom

**Maelstrom **

_I'm a princess cut from marble, smoother than a storm_  
_And the scars that mark my body, they're silver and gold_  
_My blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones_  
_It keeps my veins hot, the fires find a home in me__..._

I sit on the window ledge; fag held in shaking hand, legs dangling as I inhale sharply, body relaxing as the nicotine dulls the neurosis. In the car park down below, a Walker in police uniform stands baying for my blood, its rotting hands hopelessly clawing the air. It all feels rather like a twisted post-apocalyptic take on Romeo and Juliet. I flick the ash aside, taking another long drag. It's been a while since I've indulged in the dark stuff, but I got the craving and had no choice but to follow its call.

From somewhere down the hall, I hear the sound of smashing glass, then Duane cheering like a cheerleader, Morgan's booming laugh echoing throughout the silent station. I fling my fag away, watching it as falls far below. It's starting to get hard being around people, even if it's only been for a day or so. And after last night, when they all seen me at my weakest point, sobbing like a baby over a nightmare, I can't look them in the eye, not anymore. Not that it matters. Alliances and allegiances have changed; with the dawn of a new day, everything's changed.

I thought Morgan and I were meeting on some sort of middle ground, but we weren't, not really, not with an epic bromance now blossoming between him and Rick. This morning they were sitting side by side, bonding over breakfast, sharing stories about their sons, Rick ruffling up Duane's hair like we were in some TV movie. I slunk off, sick of being isolated. But being the odd man out is only to be expected of course. They think I'm a fruitcake. Plus what on earth do I have in common with a pair of middle-aged married men with expanding waistlines anyways?

I ended up climbing out of an upstairs window, shimmying down the drainpipe before hitting the house next door; creeping through the yard with a spade I found lying in the long grass. But it was a complete waste of time, with nothing of use to be found for love or money, not even a single cream cracker. I guess Morgan had ransacked the place when he first arrived in the area.

When I got back to the Drake residence, Rick and Morgan were out front, Morgan educating Rick in the art of slaying the snake gods, supervising Rick as he tried to take out a lone carcass-cleaner with a baseball bat, Duane hiding behind the front door, his big brown eyes wide with fear. I stood on the sidewalk, thinking I could do a better job of it than he was doing, despite never having killed one of them before either. Then Morgan spotted me, a ruckus ensuing when he got a bit shirty about my successful escape attempt from his fortress.

I flipped him the middle finger, before stalking back into the house where they thankfully didn't follow me. I just lay down on the mattress for a while, staring up at the ceiling, wishing myself into the cornfield, when Rick and Morgan came bouncing back through the front door, Morgan all smiles now, both of them beaming like they'd won the lottery. Turned out Rick had discovered all the photo albums in his house were gone, leading him to reason that his wife had taken them when she'd fled with their son, proof they were out there, still alive somewhere.

I just smiled and nodded, resisting the urge to say _no shit Sherlock _since I didn't want to rain on his parade. Not that he appreciated my efforts. Then the next thing I knew, I was sitting in the back of Morgan's light blue jeep, wedged between Morgan and Duane, the three of us sitting in uncomfortable silence as Rick drove us all to the King County Sheriff's Department where he'd worked before the apocalypse came and kicked our arses to kingdom come.

During the drive, Rick actually deigned to apprise me of his plans to go to Atlanta, waffling on about refugee centres and quarantine zones and CDCs, but I switched off, unable to share his hope when I no longer have any of my own. Then we arrived at the police station where I had to kick the emergency generator into gear whilst Rick and Morgan went to raid the armoury, dragging Duane along in their wake.

I just moseyed around, poking my nose into places I probably shouldn't have. However, unleashing the electricity means I can now flip a light switch on and off for the sheer hell of it. Then there's the small fact of being able to take a hot shower, something that's making Rick smugger than a WAG on her wedding day. I light up another fag, still slightly dazed at the fact there's still such a thing as hot running water left in this wreck of a world.

"Vivien?"

I start violently, grabbing the window-frame for support. The next thing I know, I'm being dragged backwards, arse hitting floor. I push the hair out of my face, nearly setting my split ends alight as I do so, Rick hastily snatching the fag from my fingers before flinging it out of the window.

"What the hell are you doing?" he spits.

"What the hell are _you_ doing?" I retort, getting to my feet, Rick doing a double-take.

As his stunned gaze travels over me, taking me in from top to toe, something in his shocked stare makes my fingers pluck nervously at the corner of the corset style top I have on. Earlier, I went on a little looting spree in the women's changing room. While I was trashing the lockers, looking for contraband, I found the cigs and some cop's off-duty clothes. She must have been a Goth or something going by the gear, all black lace and crimson velvet. I looted the lot, teaming it with spray-on jeans, the type that split in half if you so much as bend over, and battered black silver studded knee high boots.

Then I found some make-up to match, heavy kohl and blood red lipstick, leaving my dripping dark hair to fall down my back in bedraggled waves, fancying myself in the mirror as some tragic warrior princess at the end of the world. But now I'm seeing myself through Rick's eyes, his amused derision stripping the illusion away, leaving only the pitiful bones of my humiliation behind.

"What's wrong with you?" Rick then says quietly, wrong footing me.

"What do you mean?" I snap, taking a step back.

"Ever since this morning, you've... I don't know, you've not been yourself," he says hesitantly, taking a step forwards.

"You don't know me, Rick, so don't presume to know when I'm not being myself."

"That's what I'm talking about," he says almost eagerly, striding towards me. "From the moment I've met you, you've been all attitude and cheek, always answering back, sticking two fingers up at the world. Now look at you, all quiet and withdrawn, hiding in here like some hermit" -

- "You have a cheek to call me a hermit," I retort. "Yesterday you were like Robinson Crusoe, barely able to speak without either crying or snapping someone's head off, denying what was staring you in the face, and now you've gone all John Wayne, oh-look-at-me-I'm-so-ready-to-get-down-and-dirty-with-the-apocalypse."

He just stares at me, shocked.

"All this," I say, gesturing to the light brown police shirt, dark trousers and stupid cowboy hat he now has on, the sight of his freshly shaven face offending me in a way I can't explain, "is just a front, a facade, a _pretence. _Inside you're screaming, just like me, except I'm daring to show it now. All that attitude and the cheek, that's my pretence. That's how I get through the day; how I deal with having the dead trying to take a chunk out of me; how I get past having to join forces with a stranger that was going to sink a bullet into our brains. That's my armour, Rick, a carapace, a _shell._ It's not who I am, not really, so don't stand there and say I'm not being myself when that isn't me at all."

"Is that why you're in that ridiculous get-up then?" Rick fires back. "Did you just decide to don another layer of armour, another front to hide behind?"

"It's the very latest in survivor chic, ignoramus."

"Sure."

"Why are you here anyways?" I ask, pretending that I actually care.

"I used to work here."

"Yeah, I'm aware of that fun fact," I retort, "but that's not what I mean."

"Morgan and Duane are raiding the vending machines."

"So?"

"Thought you'd might like to join in."

"What, because destruction is my forte?"

"I saw what you did to the lockers."

"A true masterpiece of mayhem," I say airily.

Silence.

"Are you in then?" Rick then says, starting to sound pissed off now.

"I'm not a child, Rick," I snap, "you can't pacify me with chocolate."

"I was just asking" -

I just turn away from him, folding my arms across my chest.

"Is this about this morning?" Rick says, running his hand down his face, eyes filled with exasperation. "About Morgan shouting at you?"

"He had no right to speak to me like that," I say, turning back around. "All I did was climb down a drain-pipe for chrissake."

"You disappeared into thin air, Vi, scaring the hell out of us!" Rick explodes. "That's why he was shouting! He was worried, that's all. We all were!"

I stare at him, hating how he says my name, shortening it to Vi like we've known each other all our lives. "Why are you really here, Rick?" I ask suddenly, cutting to the chase, sick of pissing about.

Rick tilts the brim of his cowboy hat back, looking very small all of a sudden, like a little boy. "It's about Atlanta," he says slowly, swallowing hard.

"What about it?"

"You know about the refugee centre there, yeah? I told you about it on the way here" -

I just raise my eyebrows at him.

"You don't know about it, do you?" he says, getting annoyed again.

"I know you mentioned it, but I don't actually know anything about it."

"But you should know," Rick says, looking at me like I'm mad. "Morgan says it was all over the radio and television before the broadcasts stopped."

"I was out on the road when the shit starting hitting the fan," I half lie, "all I ever knew was that the world was ending and the dead were walking. All that stuff about refugee centres, quarantine zones and CDCs is Swahili to me."

Silence.

"I want you to come with me, Vivien. To Atlanta, I mean," Rick says in a rush.

I just stare at him,

"I know I don't know you, but I... I need you," he says shakily.

"Why on earth would you need me?" I ask in disbelief.

"I... I don't want to go out there on my own," he admits unwillingly. "I'd feel a hella lot better if I had some company."

"What about Morgan and Duane?"

"They're not coming. Not yet anyways."

"So I'm your last resort then? A sort of cheap consolation prize" -

- "I only asked them to come with us because I thought it would be better if we all stuck together, that's all," Rick spits, running his hand down his face again.

"Us?"

"Yeah, me and you."

"But I haven't agreed to come to Atlanta."

"Well, will you?"

"I don't know why you're asking, Rick, when it seems you've already decided for me."

Rick just stares at me. "Is that a no, then?" he then says, voice trembling.

I nod, bitterly enjoying the way his face falls, finally settling the score between us. We don't know each other, and it's too late to get to know each other. Our incredibly short acquaintance has been an intense maelstrom and now it's time to part ways.


	10. The Safety Of Strangers

**The Safety Of Strangers **

I stand beside the battered looking police car, tilting my head to the side as I read the motto engraved along the car door, _To Protect and Serve, _the words making something inside me crack, because that's all they are now, words, mindless, useless, empty words - I savagely boot the boot, hurting my foot in the process, the pain shooting like arrows up my leg, Duane looking at me like I'm insane. I just ignore him as I try to ignore everything else; the sweat dripping down my spine; the way I twitch at the slightest sound; how my hands are woefully empty of a weapon.

The door behind us flies open, a fire exit with a yellow sign above it declaring the legend _SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT, PERSONNEL ONLY. _Rick strides towards us, laden with bags, Morgan close at his heels, a rucksack slung over his shoulder, a bolt-action rifle with a scope slung over the other, the door slamming shut behind them as they approach us. As Morgan then goes over to the jeep, I see he's now sporting a baseball cap and little goatee, the sight of them making my hackles rise. It just embodies everything I said about me having nothing in common with him or Rick.

I watch as Rick rounds the side of the police car, dumping his bags on the ground, their contents clanking together. After the stand-off in the staff room, Rick just turned and left the room. I glance down at my scraped knuckles, testament to the fact I punched the wall after he walked out, a knee jerk reaction bitterly regretted. I don't need Rick Grimes. I don't need anybody. I just need to find the Doctor.

"You alright, Vi?" Rick says, leaning his elbow on the roof of the police car.

"Drop the Officer Friendly routine," I snap, "it's getting boring."

"You know, you could always change your mind and come with me," he presses, looking at a point past my head, eyes scrunching up against the glare of the sunlight, "your friend might be in Atlanta as well."

"He could be anywhere."

"He could be in Atlanta."

I just look at him and he looks back at me, his face boyish and earnest, the sight of it twisting my heart in my chest. Maybe if we hadn't met, he might have died in that hospital, wandering aimlessly along its endless corridors, searching for an absolution. Or he might have got out and died on the road, trying to find his way home. But then again, he might have made it on his own. Maybe he'll make it on his own now.

"I was lying you know," he says suddenly, dropping his gaze to the ground.

"About what?" I ask, curious despite myself.

"About needing you just for the company."

I raise an eyebrow.

"I need you because we need each other," he says in a rush. "I think we were meant to meet for a reason."

I raise my eyebrow a fraction higher.

"No, not like that," Rick retorts. "I just mean, what were the chances of you finding me in that hospital, huh? Within minutes of me waking up from that coma, you were there, almost like you were waiting for me. That's why I was so freaked out. It wasn't just about the dead people, Vivien, it was about _you_. Why you? Why were you there? Was it by chance or something more?"

I just stare at him, feeling the blood drain away from my face, remembering the TARDIS fading into the ether, the dead, the Doctor. Was all that just part of a trajectory to catapult me into Rick's path? A sort of long haul journey, with destiny as the bus driver and fate as the ticket inspector? _Never ignore coincidence. Unless, of course, you're busy. In which case, always ignore coincidence. _Is Rick right and I'm screwing up some cosmic joke by abandoning him by the wayside? _It's a coincidence! It happens. It's what the universe does for_ _fun._ Or is he talking complete and utter bullshit? _The universe is big. It's vast and complicated and ridiculous. And sometimes, very rarely, impossible things just happen and we call them miracles. _I take a step back, realising I can't deal with this. It was always about finding the Doctor, nothing more, nothing less. If there was something bigger going on, we'd work it out together, not on my own.

"I'm sorry, just forget what I just said," Rick says, shaking his head. "It's nuts."

"Too damn right it's nuts," I say, "because if we were meant to meet, that means we were meant to meet Morgan; that it wasn't just co-incidence he and his family ended up hiding out on the street you just happen to live on" -

- "But if we hadn't met Morgan, I wouldn't have known to go to Atlanta to find my family," Rick says before he can stop himself.

We just stand there, staring at each other, his grey eyes gazing into mine, almost like he's trying to find a foothold in the madness threatening to engulf us both. But there's no use in trying to seek safety in strangers, for there_'_s none to be found, least of all with me. There_'_s no shelter in my shadow, only further darkness. And that's why I have to leave, why I have to walk through what's left of the world alone.

Some might say I'm being a coward; that I'm running away, pushing people from me, but I can't deal with this, a superstitious cop who unwittingly has a better grasp on the situation than I have. I did the decent thing and helped him back at the hospital. I didn't turn tail and leave him to die; I set him back on his feet, so he has to traverse through the troubles ahead on his own. I can't hold his hand for him, nor am I deciding his fate for him; I'm deciding it for me.

I half turn away from him, wrapping my arms around myself. "You don't need me, Rick, you only think you do because you're scared," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "you've just woken up out of a coma for chrissake, only to find the world's changed, the dead walking, your family gone - it's completely understandable you're freaked out. But you've made it this far, and you'll make it out there. You'll survive."

Rick just looks at the ground, his face hidden from sight by the sweeping brim of his hat. I look away, blinking back the tears filling my eyes. Tears are weakness and crying isn't going to conjure up a way out of this hell. Finding the Doctor is the way forwards, the only way forwards. Morgan and Duane approach us, almost nervously, and I force myself to face them, the foe now turned friend. Morgan steps forward, pulling something out of his rucksack, something that rustles and ripples in the faint breeze. He hands the plastic bag to me, and I take it, the gesture oddly anchoring me amongst the chaos.

"It's just some bottles of water an' granola bars, with some chocolate an_'_ chips for maybe a midnight feast or somethin'," Morgan says awkwardly, zipping up his rucksack again. "Got them out of one the vendin' machines back there."

"Midnight feasts, huh?" I say, peering inside the bag, remembering 'chips' is American for crisps. "I think you've been reading too much Enid Blyton."

"Never heard of him. Is he some chat show host or somethin'?" Morgan asks, confused.

I just shake my head, fighting back the tears in earnest now, my grip tightening round the handles of the plastic bag for dear life. He's trying to build bridges, bridges I'd end up breaking, bridges that will never be. Rick glances at the two of us, and he comes round the side of the police car, subtly drawing the spotlight onto him instead.

"One thing, Morgan," Rick says, gesturing to the bolt-action rifle slung over Morgan's shoulder, "just remember to conserve your ammo. It goes faster than you think, especially at target practice."

Morgan nods, the two men exchanging a glance, a glance I don't understand the meaning of. "Duane," Morgan then says suddenly to his son, "take this to the jeep." He hands his rucksack over Duane who takes it, scooting off at great speed over to the vehicle. Morgan watches him go before turning to me, his face serious, almost sombre, his dark eyes filled with worry.

"Rick told me you're plannin' to hit the road on your own," he says, brow furrowing, "if you ain't headin' to Atlanta, you should come back with me an' Duane. This ain't a world to be on your own in, least of all a young woman."

"Thanks but no thanks," I say abruptly, "I have to find my friend."

Silence.

"Told you," Rick says in a low voice. "Stubborn as a mule."

"At least he's not saying it's because the stars are aligned a certain way," I snap, making Morgan look at me like I'm mad.

"Are you sure you won't come along?" Rick asks Morgan hastily, the back of his neck reddening slightly.

Morgan takes off his baseball cap, running his hand over his head, brow furrowing even further. "A few more days," he says, "by then Duane will know how to shoot an_'_ I won't be so rusty."

Rick considers Morgan for a moment before turning and opening the police car door, stooping down and pulling out a walkie-talkie, Morgan looking at it almost mockingly. No wonder, it's like something out of the Stone Age. Rick pushes it into Morgan's hand, the walkie whining as he does so. "You've got one battery," Rick explains, "I'll turn mine on a few minutes every day at dawn. You get up there, that's how you find me."

"You think ahead."

"Can't afford not to, not anymore," Rick says grimly, turning his gaze on me.

I hold my hands up, the handle of the plastic bag sliding over my wrist and down my arm. "I don't want a walkie-talkie, Woody," I say as Morgan grins wryly at the Toy Story reference, "I'm not hauling some brick around with me."

"How you gonna get out of here, huh?" Rick snaps, attacking me from a different angle. "On foot? Maybe a unicyle? And what about a weapon, hmm? Or are you just gonna just shake your ass at the undead and hope that does the trick, like some hoochie mamma trying to pick up a customer at the side of the road so her kids won't go to bed hungry that night?"

I just gawp at him.

"That's why I think ahead," Rick says grimly, going back round the side of the police car, disappearing from sight as he kneels down, unzipping one of the bags he brought out with him. He straightens up, slamming a hand gun and two small cardboard boxes of bullets down on top of the car roof. "It's just a case of pointing and pulling the trigger," Rick says, ignoring my outraged face, "nothing to it."

"I don't do guns," I say with some difficulty.

"I don't care what you do," Rick says, "you're taking that gun."

"And you can just take that gun and shove it up your arse, sunshine," I retort. "I'm not into all that gangster shit."

Rick turns away, looking like he's going to explode.

"If you want to play the part of Lady Bountiful, give me a car," I say, eying the ones scattered around the car park. "There must be keys back in the station somewhere."

"Already done," Rick says, surprising me, "whilst you were hiding out in your bat-cave, I got one ready, all tanked up, good to go."

"Thanks."

Silence.

"I guess this is it, then," Morgan says hesitantly as Duane comes creeping back over, "a partin_'_ of the ways."

"Until Atlanta," Rick says quietly, glancing at me, but I look away, unable to meet his eyes.

"You're a good man, Rick," Morgan then says, shaking hands with him, "I hope you find your wife and son."

Rick just nods, before stooping down so he's eye level with Duane. "Be seeing you, Duane," Rick says, shaking Duane's hand as well. "Take care of your old man."

"Yes, sir," Duane grins.

Rick straightens up, staring at the far horizon, giving me a moment to say my own good-byes.

"Bye Duane," I say awkwardly.

"Bye," Duane says just as awkwardly.

"Morgan," I say formally, inclining my head in his direction, ready to make a graceful exit, but before I can, he takes my face between his big hands, his lips brushing my brow, startling me. There's no passion present, just a deep-seated emotion I can't decipher. Then he releases me, slipping something into my jean pocket, something small and heavy.

"Take care, Vivien," he says gruffly, "stay safe. Stay alive."

I nod, swallowing hard.

He looks at me for a long moment before putting his baseball cap back on, half turning away from me, looking like he's going to say something else, but not sure if he should. "Better than a butter-knife, girl," he says, saying it anyways, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, "better than a butter-knife."

And despite everything, I grin back, understanding that he understands why I'm cutting myself loose, that he understands more than I do myself.

_Still I'll be a traveller_  
_A gypsy's reins to face_  
_But the road is wearier_  
_With that fool found in your place_


	11. I've Got A War In My Mind

**I've Got A War In My Mind**

_Don't break me down_  
_I've been travelin' too long_  
_I've been trying too hard_  
_With one pretty song_

___I hear the birds on the summer breeze_  
_I drive fast, I am alone in midnight_  
_Been tryin' hard not to get into trouble_  
_But I, I've got a war in my mind_  
_I just ride, just ride__,_  
_I just ride, I just ride_

The horizon shimmers in the heat, an indistinct assurance of tomorrow. The sky is nothing but a blur of bright blue, a canvas ruined by the tears falling down my face. But still I drive on, bypassing what used to be. There's a map in the glove compartment, but I don't know where I'm going. The fields flash past; the road is all that remains, and still I just keep driving, even though I'm running on fumes now. I've gone further than I thought I could, and as the engine sputters to a halt, I realise what Rick has done, depriving himself for my sake. I jerk the car to a final standstill, before burying my face in my hands, leaning my head against the dashboard.

I stay like that for a while, the crows cawing overhead. Over and over, I remember Rick walking away, doffing his cowboy hat in goodbye; the beep of Morgan's jeep horn as we drove off in our different directions. I remember trying to act the big woman, thinking wryly to myself how times had changed; usually I would be found in the back of a police car, not the front. But then the bravado faded away, and I just kept driving, trying to escape the mistake I made.

I thump the dashboard with my fist, choking down the frustration that's threatening to throttle me. Forcing myself to sit up, I wipe my eyes with the back of my wrists, smearing make-up all over my face even further. Taking a deep breath, I try to get a grip. Then something hits the car door window, making me start violently. Through the grime streaked glass, I see it's one of them, a woman with half her face ripped off, along with most of her hair. The sight nearly stops my heart, making the bile rise up in my throat.

Taking sharp shallow breaths, I instinctively reach for Morgan's flick-knife, pulling it out of my pocket with a shaking hand. Then I wind down the window, trying to shove the blade into the Walker's brain through the narrow gap. But its snapping teeth nearly take off the top of my fingers, and as I yank my hand back, the flick-knife slips from my grasp, falling onto the ground outside.

I slump back in the seat, nearly hyperventilating now. Then there's a bang at the back window, and I realise that unless I do something - and something fast - this car will end up as my coffin. Taking a deep breath, I snatch up the plastic bag of food and water from the seat beside me, trying to block out the sound of fingernails scraping against the glass, before flinging open the car door, knocking the carcass-cleaner aside. In the few seconds it takes for it to regain its balance and launch itself at me again, I'm dropping to the ground, snatching up the flick-knife, the blood beating in my ears like a drum -

As though in a trance, I grab it by the throat. Then I'm pinning it to the side of the car, somehow stabbing it through the head, its body going slack in my grip. All of time seems to slow down, the blood dripping off the edge of the blade in slow motion. I let go before taking a step back, stunned as the carcass-cleaner slumps to the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, there's a flash of movement, and too late do I remember the other one. Before I can react, it's on top of me, and I crash against the car, screaming as teeth scrape against my throat -

Somehow I manage to twist free, throwing it off me, and then I'm on top of it, struggling with its flailing hands, plunging the blade into its brain again and again until it falls still. For a long moment I just stare at its wasted face, the vacant eyes, the mouth contorted into a lop-sided snarl. It's another woman, young, with long red blood matted hair. Then I stand up, my legs nearly giving way beneath me in shock.

In a daze, I manage to make my way away from the car, barely aware of the blood splattering my clothes and skin, the handle of the plastic bag slipping over my wrist, the knife still in my hand. It's only until I reach the top of the road that the reality of what just happened hits me, and I turn and hurl all over the sunbaked ground, the crows soaring high above me, mocking the world below.

_I'm tired of feeling like I'm fucking crazy_  
_I'm tired of driving 'til I see stars in my eyes_  
_It's all I've got to keep myself sane, baby_  
_So I just ride, I just ride_

* * *

_"Morgan never mentioned anything about my fancy dress costume," I say, struggling to make conversation as we cross the car park, "did you give him a heads-up or something?"_

_"The world doesn't revolve around you, Vivien," Rick says dryly, "we've got more important things to worry about than your dodgy dress sense."_

_"That's me told then," I say, rolling my eyes. _

_Rick shoots me a sidelong glance, the corners of his mouth curling upwards reluctantly, and to my surprise, I find myself smiling back. But the moment is broken by the sound of snarling, making us both whirl around. Beyond the chain-link fence nearby, a Walker wearing the same police uniform as Rick shambles into view, and it takes me a moment to recognize him as Romeo from earlier on. Without thinking, I turn and walk over to the fence, tilting my head to the side as I study him, taking in the sight of his drooping moustache and weak chin with a disinterest the Doctor would disapprove of. _

_"Leon Basset?" Rick says in disbelief, lowering his gun as he comes up the side of me. _

_"You know him?" I say stupidly. _

_"I didn't think much of him," Rick says, more to himself than me, "he was careless and dumb, but..." his voice trails off as what's left of Leon presses itself against the chain-link, rattling it, giving me a strange sense of back to front déjà vu, like I've seen this before, but it's still yet to happen. _

_"But what?" I prompt, trying to clear my thoughts. _

_"But I can't leave him like this," Rick says quietly, staring at Leon, seeing himself reflected in the dead man's eyes, and I know what he's thinking; that this could have been his fate, wandering an empty parking lot, enslaved by an insatiable hunger. _

_I look at Leon, trying to see him and not the carcass-cleaner that wants to claw our insides out. I see the police radio dangling from his belt and wonder if he was trying to call for help, for back-up, before he died. I see his rat-like features, the thin lips crusted with blood, the various abrasions to his forehead and cheeks, the chunk taken out of his neck. Inexplicably he's covered in mud, and I take a step back, not wanting to see anymore, to not get too close to what is long gone. _

_"You going to put him down?" I say uneasily, eying the fence, the coils of barbed wire lining the top of it, wondering if it will hold under the pressure Leon's putting it under. _

_Rick nods, raising his gun, pressing its barrel to Leon's forehead through one of the little gaps in the chain-link. _

_"You know they'll hear the shot?" I point out. _

_"Let's not be here when they show up, then," Rick says, pulling the trigger, the sound of the gunshot making the silence explode into smithereens. Leon falls back, hands still clutching the chain-link. Then he slumps to the ground, fingers trailing down the fence, rattling it one last time. Rick turns and walks away, not one flicker of emotion in his eyes for the passing of his former colleague, and I wonder if putting a bullet in Leon's brain has settled some kind of unspoken score between them._

* * *

I slam the door to the people-carrier shut, recoiling as the sound shatters the silence, echoing through the still air. For a moment I just stand there, waiting. But nothing stirs, nothing comes. I step over the remains of some sort of animal before making my way forwards again, searching through the satchel as I move, throwing away the junk inside, shoving my paltry supplies inside instead.

Slinging the satchel strap across my chest, I trek on, tightening my grip on my knife, its weight in my hand almost but not quite banishing the demons. I've been walking for a while now, watching the sun climb higher and higher in the sky, the heat becoming almost unbearable. Again, I don't know where I'm going or what I'm going to do. All I've done so far is follow the rhythm of the road, coming across burnt out wrecks and crashed cars, avoiding the former and looting the latter - not that there's much to be found. The most I've scavenged is the satchel and a battered can of Red Bull. I've found maps aplenty but I just left them where they lay. The streets belong to them now, not me.

So far I've managed to avoid coming across anymore carcass-cleaners, and I'm hoping against hope that it stays that way. My head's still reeling from before, the blood now crusting my skin and clothes in black jagged streaks. I don't want this; to walk with a weapon in my hand, ready to sink it into a skull. But you can only run and hide for so long. The time for killing has come, hunt or be hunted.

* * *

_I glance back at Morgan and Duane sitting in the jeep, Morgan drumming the dashboard with agitated fingers, Duane's small face pressed against the window. My eye catches Morgan's, and for a long moment, we just look at each other, all the distrust destroyed by the distance between now and then, because he understands, he knows. He raises his hand, and I raise mine back, hesitant and unsure, thinking this will probably be the last time I ever see him, my enemy, my ally. _

_"There's your car," Rick calls over his shoulder, striding over to it, and I have to run to catch up with him, skidding to a halt beside the battered vehicle. "Here," Rick says gruffly, pulling the car-keys out of his trouser pocket, shoving them into my hand instead, "don't lose them."_

_"Do you think I'm daft? You're the one that lost my crowbar," I say irritably. _

_Rick just looks at me, eyes as grey as the sea before a storm, and before I realise what I'm doing, I fling my arms around him, burying my face in the crook of his neck, his own arms wrapping themselves around my shoulders. For a long moment we stand there, holding onto all that's left to us, a lost girl and a man searching for his wife and son, two strangers united by a broken world, and when he lets go of me, I realise what it truly means to be alone. _

_"Come with me," Rick says pleadingly, and it's like I'm being plunged back into the past, the Doctor saying the three words I've been waiting all my life for him to say, _come with me_, and I shake my head, hiding my shaking hands behind my back so Rick can't see them. _

_"If we are really meant to find each other," I say, voice cracking, "we'll find each other again, and then, and only then, will I come with you."_

_And Rick just nods, the madness of my words making complete sense to him; not a romantic pact, but a promise, a promise death will probably break. _

Stay on these roads  
We shall meet, I know  
Stay on...  
We shall meet, I know  
I know

* * *

It's the row of spikes that stop me, the sight improbable, impossible. I walk around the station-wagon, taking in the burst tyres, trying and failing to understand what happened here. All the doors have been flung open, lending the scene a sense of panic. The skid marks are fresh, implying this was recent, very recent. I back away. Some sort of trap has been sprung here, but whether the prey has evaded the predator, I can't tell. But this is the work of the living, not the dead, and I'm not going to wait for its architect to show up, if they haven't done so already.

I start walking, almost sprinting, trying to put distance between myself and the pranged vehicle, only slowing to a crawl when I can no longer see it. Time ticks past, silence reigning supreme, and still I walk on, fields surrounding me on all sides. I raise my head, shielding my eyes with my hand, stumbling to a halt when I see the crossroads looming up ahead, dividing my future into four. Forcing my feet forwards, I go to meet it, but it's only when I draw closer that I see the destruction. In the centre of the junction, the remains of several Walkers lie sprawled on the ground, heads bashed in, limbs broken.

Swallowing hard, I edge round the gore and guts, almost breaking my neck by slipping on some brain matter. The stench is indescribable. It makes Morgan's toilet fragrant in comparison. Yet despite this, I study the carnage, noting how there's no stab wounds or bullet holes, indicating a blunt instrument was used during the fight - or a few at least, maybe baseball bats or something.

But what catches my attention most is the fresh blood slick and gleaming on the ground, leaving a crimson trail that I force myself to follow. Morgan said there were other survivors, and by the sound of it, the ones he met haven't exactly been friendly, so I could be walking into another war, being barely able to fight the dead as it is, never mind the living. And approaching a bunch of strangers on my own, armed with only a flick knife, is a bad idea, especially if one of them has been bitten, but it's the only idea I've got, and I have to do it, for the Doctor at least. They might have come across him on their travels; for all I know, he might even be with them. Morgan hadn't seen him, but they might have. So I have to check; I have to make sure.

I track the river of blood, stomach churning at how much there is of it, before rounding a bend in the road, and that's when I see them, silhouetted against the blue sky, moving at such a slow pace to the extent they're almost stopping. I speed up, fighting down the bitter disappointment that the Doctor isn't amongst them, spurring myself on with the thought they might have seen him, that he's still alive somewhere and I'll find him again.

"Hey!" I yell, making them turn around. "Hey!"

I draw level with them, holding my hands up to show I mean no harm. There are five of them in total, four teenagers, the only boy amongst them supporting the only adult, a woman in her early fifties, her long ash-grey hair bound in a tangled braid, her hand clutching a wadded up t-shirt to her throat, the fabric soaked through with blood. The eldest teenager steps forward, almost shielding the others, raising her bloodied baseball bat threateningly. She's tall and gangly, with bobbed pink-streaked ginger hair and pointed features, her blue eyes narrowing into slits as she studies me, almost sneering at the sight of my make-up smeared face and blood-splattered clothes.

"Who the hell are you, bitch?" she snarls, and it's like looking into a mirror; the attitude problem and the huge chip on the shoulder.

"I don't want any trouble," I say slowly, feeling that it's an understatement to say this conversation is getting off on the wrong foot, "I'm just looking for my friend."

"Well she ain't here," she says from between gritted teeth, "and we ain't seen anybody either."

"It's a he - not a she," I explain, trying to stand my ground as her grip tightens on the baseball bat, like she's readying herself to bash my brains out.

"What does he look like?" the boy says, startling me, the others staring at him.

"Tall, mad hair, wears a suit."

"Nope, not seen anyone like that," the boy says, trying to stay upright as the woman slumps against his shoulder, her face contorted with pain.

I just nod, choking down the bitter disappointment at discovering another dead end, gesturing towards the woman instead. "She got bit?" I ask quietly, aiming my question at the boy since he's the only one willing enough to talk civilly.

"Yeah," he says, scrunching up his eyes, his chin trembling, "back at the crossroads."

"Can I take a look?" I say against my better judgement.

The boy exchanges a glance with the ginger girl, and she nods reluctantly, stepping aside to let me pass. In the space of a few minutes, I've got the woman sitting by the side of the road, the others hovering around us, their faces pale beneath the dirt, tears shining in their eyes as I examine her injury, nearly throwing up at the sight of where the Walker has taken a chunk out of her. There's a strange calmness to the proceedings, almost like it's an everyday event for me to accost a bunch of baseball bat wielding teenagers. But what's bothering me most is how easily these teenagers have deferred to me, even the one with the attitude problem, and I realise in leaving Rick and Morgan, I've ended up backing myself into another corner.

"Is she gonna die?" the youngest girl asks, her lower lip wobbling.

I evade the question, wondering how I'm going to evade them full stop. Once this woman dies and turns, somebody's going to have to put her down, and that someone is probably going to be me. Then there's the small issue of whether I can walk away from this without becoming further involved. Crushing down my doubts, I pour some water into the wound, trying to clean it, the woman crying out in pain, making the ginger girl lunge forwards, the boy restraining her.

"It's alright, Ainslie, she's just cleaning the wound so it don't get infected," the boy hisses.

"She's already infected," I say, not looking at him, "all we can do is try and keep her comfortable."

"And how are we gonna do that, huh?" Ainslie snaps. "Some psycho totalled our ride and now we're stranded in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to eat or drink and these cannibal freaks wandering about" -

- "Here, take this, share it out amongst yourselves," I interrupt, pulling the strap of my satchel over my head and chucking it at her feet. "Just go easy on the liquids."

Ainslie picks up the satchel, her face mutinous. The other girl edges forwards, all blonde hair and white teeth, sweet sixteen in the flesh. "You a doctor?" she asks suspiciously, the saccharine Southern twang of her accent instantly getting on my last nerve.

"She don't look old enough to be a doctor," the youngest says disparagingly, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ears.

"A nurse then," Sweet Sixteen presses, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Neither," I say, picking up the bloodied t-shirt up with some distaste, before reluctantly holding it against the woman's neck again, "I've just picked up bits and pieces here and there, first aid and shit, you know the drill."

"You English?" the boy asks as Ainslie hands him a chocolate bar.

"No, I'm Martian," I answer, deadpan, eliciting a reluctant giggle from the youngest.

"You got a camp?" Sweet Sixteen says, sounding hopeful.

I shake my head, feeling guilty as her face falls. "What about you lot? Where's your dad?" I ask, frowning a little as the woman lolls forwards.

"Oh, she ain't our mom," the boy says, looking shocked at the notion.

"And we ain't blood either," Sweet Sixteen chips in, "none of us is related. We just decided to sort of stick together, since we had nobody else."

"Whose she, then?" I ask, jerking my head at the woman.

"That's Suellen," the youngest pipes up, "she was part of our group."

"You had a base then?"

"It was a camp, got overrun a few days ago," the boy explains, rumpling up his hair with an agitated hand, "Suellen got us out of there. Everyone else..." His voice trails off, and he looks away.

"That's the third time this has happened to us," Sweet Sixteen says, voice cracking, "every time we find a place, they come."

Silence.

"Where's your group?" the youngest pipes up, face curious.

"Gone," I say abruptly, "I left them."

"Why?"

"Because they weren't my group."

"Huh?"

"It doesn't matter," I say tiredly, "I'm here, and they're wherever they are."

"Where are they?"

"King County and Atlanta," I say, starting to lose my temper now, "there's a refugee centre in Atlanta apparently. Maybe you lot should think about making tracks there."

They all just stare at me.

"What is it?" I snap. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Atlanta's gone," Sweet Sixteen says, exchanging a worried look with the boy, "there's nothing there, not anymore."

All the blood drains from my face.

"What's wrong with Suellen's eyes?" Ainslie says suddenly, almost stupidly. "They're all _white _now."

I look up, startled. Then there's a snarl, and the next thing I know, the woman's launching herself at my throat.


	12. The Greater Good

**The Greater Good**

We walk in single file, me leading, Ainslie bringing up the rear. All that lies ahead of us is endless road, fields flanking us on either side, stretching as far as the eye can see. Somehow I've ended up saddled with a bunch of brats at the end of the world, and I hate them for it. Rick's gone and it's too late to go after him, and even if I could, I can't, because of them. If he's really dead, I'll have to live with that for what's rest of my life. A tear rolls down my face, but I wipe it away with the back of my hand, not wanting them to see my weakness, not when they're looking to me for strength, strength I don't have.

After Suellen tried to rip my throat out, there was just this silence, the type of silence that drills into your skull despite there being no sound. Then I got to my feet, Suellen's blood staining my face like tribal war paint, the flick-knife in my hand, the others just staring at me in terror. Of all the things they've seen and suffered, they still have the capacity to feel fear. But it wasn't fear at what I did, but what would come after; if I would just leave them to rot like road kill by the side of the road. But even as I left Rick, I couldn't leave them, because he wouldn't have.

We dug a shallow grave for Suellen, using nothing but our bare hands to dig with. A few words were said, the blonde saying a short prayer. Then we hit the road without a backwards glance. As we walked, they ate; shoving my food down their throats like it was their last meal. The more ground we covered, the more they gave away of themselves; how they met, who they lost.

I know their names now, names I don't want to know. The boy is Drew, the blonde Dana, the youngest Kayla. At the beginning of the outbreak, all four had been heading to Atlanta with their families, until their lives were literally ripped apart. Ainslie's family lost their lives on the highway, Ainslie surviving by hiding in the boot of a stranger's car. Dana lost her parents back in Decatur, her older brother later on.

Drew survived the massacre at Druid Hills, a scrap-metal place turned stronghold, the place destroyed not by the dead, but the living. A motor-cycle gang attacked the place, raping and murdering all those who were inside, looting their supplies before burning the place down. Kayla's father got bitten on the way home from work. That night he turned and attacked her mother and sisters. Kayla got out by climbing out of the kitchen window, escaping with her little brother. He ended up dying on the way to Atlanta, too small to survive the journey.

Ainslie met Drew, Dana and her brother in the woods, part of a group that had been originally heading for the mountains, before setting up base somewhere near Jonesboro instead. When their camp got overrun, the four of them headed out west, searching for another group to join, but when a man attacked them, trying to steal their meagre supplies, Dana's brother got shot and killed. Later on, Ainslie found Kayla in an old warehouse, surrounded by three men, but saving her came at the cost of her conscience. The gun she used is now stuffed down the back of my jeans. I'll probably end blasting my arse off.

They tell me all this like I should care, but I don't; I _can't. _But if I had a reason to hang around, it would be Kayla, so small, so vulnerable, the sight of her scared eyes tearing my heart out. But I can't deal with her or them or anyone or anything. It's like a storm's building in me, the clouds gathering, the sky darkening. Burden after burden is being placed on my shoulders, the guilt flaying my conscience like a whip. I don't know how much longer I can keep on. It's like I'm in some sort of sick maze, encountering obstacle after obstacle with no way out in sight.

Nobody wants to talk about what we're going to do for food, for shelter. That's my responsibility because I'm the token adult. That's why Ainslie gave me the gun, because she was passing the buck. Nobody but me seems to think it's insane that they're placing their total trust in me, a complete stranger. Why they think I can ensure their survival, I don't have a clue. But what's bothering me most of all is the fact somebody took the time to total their car. Whoever laid down that row of spikes is still out there, and all I have in my artillery is a flick-knife, a half empty gun I don't even know how to use, and a few baseball bats. As for back-up, forget it.

"I like your clothes," Kayla says shyly, slipping her arm through mine, and I have to fight the urge to shake her off.

"Thanks," I mutter, not knowing what else to say, yet not wanting to hurt her feelings.

"She loves Gerard Way," Drew says by way of explanation, as if I care.

"You love him too," Dana calls from behind, making Kayla crack up with laughter, Drew's face flushing hotly.

"At least he's not a moron with more muscles than brains," Ainslie snaps, startling me with her vehemence.

"Liam's not like that," Dana snaps back, coming up the side of me, "he's _intelligent _and _sensitive_."

"He's an _ass-hole_."

"Who the hell's Liam when he's at home?" I interrupt, sensing an escape.

"He's this totally amazing guy who saved _me _out in the woods," Dana says, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

"He didn't just save you," Drew scoffs. "He saved us all."

"Yeah, he brought us all to Suellen's camp, not just you, Dana," Ainslie says, shaking her head.

"How is he amazing? Apart from saving you lot that is," I interject quickly, trying to hide my interest, Kayla tightening her arm round mine, almost like she knows I'm preparing to ditch them.

"Well, the last time _I_ saw him," Dana says pompously, "he was trying to create some sort of thing linking camps and strongholds together; a kind of network where they could like trade with each other and stuff" -

- "It isn't just about that," Drew interrupts angrily, "it's about bringing communities together, establishing alliances" -

- "Strength in numbers," I interrupt in turn, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. This Liam just sounds like a total opportunist, making sure he has all his fingers in the biggest pies.

"Yeah, exactly," Drew says, my sarcasm going right over the top of his head, "and that's what we believe in as well, in sticking together."

"Like glue," Kayla says, highfiving him with her free hand, making my heart twist in my chest.

"So this Liam's more or less empire-building then?" I say to Drew, trying to stick to the subject. "Reconstructing the world in his image, yeah?"

"He's not like that, Viv," Drew says, getting annoyed, "but with camps being overrun and groups moving around, it's sometimes hard for him to keep track of who is were. It's... it's a work in progress."

"So he just wanders around, picking up strays and pointing them in the right direction?" I hazard. "Trading toilet paper for a few smokes and calling it a return to civilization?"

"He _helps _people," Dana says, looking at me like I'm stupid.

"He helped _us_," Drew adds.

"Our camp needed a dentist," Kayla speaks up, letting go of my arm, "and he knew one in another camp, so he went and got her."

"And he helped get supplies for our camp as well," Dana interjects, "even giving us the last of his fuel so we wouldn't have to travel on foot."

"He _protects _people," Kayla says helpfully, "I think he's a soldier."

"No he's not," Ainslie says, sounding bored.

"Well he looks like one to me," Kayla protests.

"He might be," Dana says thoughtfully, "he's certainly got the muscles for it."

"Shut up, Dana," Drew says, flushing hotly.

"Yeah, shut up, Dana," Ainslie repeats, "Liam wouldn't look twice at you."

"How do you know?" Dana retorts, tossing her hair back angrily.

"Because he's not a pervert."

"I'm seventeen," Dana says, slowing to a halt, the rest of us following suit.

"So what? You're still just a stupid little kid to him," Ainslie says, swinging her baseball bat threateningly.

"You're just jealous," Dana spits, face now puce, "because he likes me and not you" -

- "Ainslie doesn't like boys, remember?" Kayla points out, rolling her eyes.

"Keep out of this, Kayla," Dana says, whirling on her.

"That's enough," I snap, stepping between them, forcing them to start moving again. "Where's Action Man now?"

"Why?" Ainslie says dangerously as she walks, dragging her feet. "You wanna hook up with him as well?"

"If he can take responsibility for you once," I say from between gritted teeth, "he can take responsibility for you again."

The kids trip to a halt again, stunned.

"What, you leaving us?" Drew asks in disbelief.

His words spin out into silence, the storm building, breaking... "I have to go to Atlanta," I say quietly, the world suddenly, dizzyingly making sense again.

"You _can't!_" Dana protests. "It'd be _suicide!_"

"Why would you go there anyways!?" Kayla asks, bewildered

"She's chucking us in for this Rick guy, that's why," Ainslie fires at Kayla, making her shrink back in fear. Then Ainslie turns the guns on me, her eyes blazing in her pale face. "Am I right?" she spits, and when I don't answer, she explodes. "He's _dead_, Viv, gone, taken out for trash" -

- "You don't know that!" I shout, rounding on her.

"How do you know!?" Ainslie retorts. "You weren't there when the city got bombed! You weren't on that highway when it got swarmed! I was, Viv, _I _was there!"

I just stare at her, seeing her finally for what she really is, a frightened little girl, her knees trembling, face completely bloodless. "That's the whole point, Ainslie," I say, shaking from head to foot as I advance on her, "I have to _know_, and I won't know unless I go to Atlanta. If there's the slightest chance he's still alive" -

- "He won't be though" -

- "It's not just about him!" I snap, silencing her. "There's a man and his little boy out there - they're meant to be joining Rick in Atlanta in the next few days, but they'll just be walking into a death-trap. I can't... I can't let happen, alright? I have to find them, to warn them."

"But you can't be in two places at once," Ainslie says slowly, like she's just realizing something, "time's ticking for your precious Rick. If you go back to King County to warn the others, you're just wasting time, time you could be using to save him."

"And the others might have changed their minds about waiting a few days," Dana says carefully, exchanging a glance with Ainslie, "if you go to King County, they might be long gone, already on their way to Atlanta."

"Well, I'll just go straight there," I say, shrugging my shoulders.

"What about us though?" Kayla says in a small voice, making something inside me snap.

"Why are you trusting me with your lives like this?" I suddenly scream, making them all flinch. "Within five minutes of meeting me, you're all clinging to my leg like a bunch of toddlers! You don't even know me for chrissake! I could be a complete head banger!"

"You helped us," Kayla whispers.

"What, does that mean I have to adopt you now?" I spit. "Tuck you in with a bedtime story" -

- "Screw you," Ainslie says suddenly, viciously, "we don't need you. You bailed on these people back at King County, and now you're bailing on us because you're going on some epic guilt-trip. But you know what? I think that's just bullshit; that this is what you do for kicks - you take off; you runaway; you backstab those that trust you" -

Then she freezes, our heads turning as we hear it, the screech of tyres over asphalt.

* * *

The cornstalks ripple in the breeze, a symphony of movement, flashing like gold fire in the sun. Life reigns here, not death, and we just stand there, almost as if we're waiting for deliverance. The sound of screeching tyres becomes louder, and I suddenly remember the violated vehicle, the row of spikes, a shallow grave by the side of the road. Without thinking, I grab Kayla's arm, dragging her towards the dried out irrigation ditch edging the fields, yelling at the others to get their arses into gear.

"What the hell are you doing!?" Ainslie screeches, looking between me and the road like she's watching a tennis match. "Somebody's coming! They could help us!"

"Your car got totalled," I spit, shoving Kayla down into the ditch, ignoring her cry of protest, "and Suellen died. Do the bloody math!"

Ainslie just stares at me, eyes widening in horrified comprehension.

"You seriously gonna listen to her!?" Drew yells. "She's abandoning us, Ainslie! This might be our only chance of getting a ride out of here!"

"Get in the fucking ditch, Drew!" I scream at him, shoving Ainslie aside. "And stop that stupid crying!" I bawl over my shoulder at Kayla sobbing out of sight in the ditch, the top of her head barely visible.

"You're abandoning us!" Drew howls, tears starting to stream down his own face, Dana dramatically doubling up in the middle of the road, hands clamped over her ears, her baseball bat clattering onto the ground beside Drew's. "You're just like the rest of them, leaving us behind to die so we don't slow you down!"

"I won't leave you, I promise! Just get in the ditch, please!" I beg, freezing as I see a shadow darkening the horizon. "Dana," I say quickly, giving up on Drew, "come on, we have to hide."

She lowers her hands from her ears, looking up at me from behind her tumbled blonde hair.

"Come on, Dana," I cajole, holding my hand out to her, the shadow becoming a shape. "It's not safe here."

"I'm not going with you," she says, straightening up, her face very white beneath her tan. "I'm staying here."

I look at her, and then Drew, seeing not two kids but two adults, one seventeen, the other at least eighteen, old enough to vote, to get married, to die.

"Viv," Kayla weeps, deciding me there and then. I shake my head at the pair, pulling out Ainslie's gun as I retreat to the ditch, sliding down the small embankment, Ainslie catching me as I hit the bottom, my boots sinking into the mire. Kayla huddles against my side, Ainslie crouching down beside us, tears rolling down her face. I look down at the gun in my shaking hand, hearing the sound of the car coming closer and closer, the smooth purr of its engine, the screech of its tyres, realising that I've done this; that I've driven Dana and Drew to their destruction -

I lunge forwards, Kayla and Ainslie grabbing me, restraining me as the car slows to a stop. I bare my teeth at them, Ainslie shaking her head, letting go of my arm, Kayla clinging to my other, her nails digging into my skin. A door clicks open, then another. I raise my head slightly, trying to see. There's the sound of footsteps, Drew speaking, Dana silent. I straighten up slightly, just needing that extra inch...

Drew is standing slightly to the left of Dana, his face tear-stained yet oddly eager as he addresses the strangers, Dana sullen, silent. I study the strangers disbelievingly, shocked at how _clean _they are, how well fed they seem. One is a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, her dark hair divided into a side parting, severely scraped off her strangely flushed face into a bun. The other is a man, maybe in his mid thirties, with short dark hair, skin freshly shaved. They seem to be wearing police uniforms, not unlike Rick's in style, but different in colour, the shirts black instead of brown. Gold badges gleam on their chests, police radios clipped to their shoulders. They don't say anything, just staring at Drew and Dana, their gazes dwelling on Dana in particular, making my spine stiffen -

The woman glances around, before suddenly reaching into her holster. Before I can move, before I can even raise my own gun, Drew slumps to the ground, a look of surprise on his face, blood bubbling from the bullet hole in the centre of his forehead, the gunshot ringing through the air like a bell. Silence falls, the kind of vast echoing silence you could get lost in, then the screaming starts, Dana, Ainslie, Kayla, and I'm moving, scrabbling up the side of the ditch, clawing my way towards oblivion, the mud becoming etched under my filthy fingernails, and somehow I'm standing by the side of the road, my gun trained on the woman, her face betraying nothing, just a bland mask of brutality as the man rams the barrel of his gun against Dana's temple, trapping her in a headlock.

"Every sacrifice we make needs to be for the greater good," the woman says quietly, like her words are for me and me alone, "but here, you're not the greater good."

I just stare at her, at the gun she's holding by her side, the blood spilt on the asphalt, Dana's terrified eyes. Time slows down and speeds up, everything happening at once, the screams that rise and fall in a choir of cacophony, the crows cawing overhead, the rustling of the cornfields around us -

I dive out of the way, but the bullet hits my shoulder instead, shattering the bone, and I'm falling, falling, hitting the ground, nearly passing out with the pain, my gun half raised, _it's just a case of pointing and pulling the trigger, nothing to it, _and the woman screams, collapsing against the car like a puppet whose had its strings cut, hand flying to her thigh, trying to stem the arterial explosion.

Ainslie is shouting, Kayla screaming; with Walkers suddenly everywhere, emerging from the cornfields, staggering into sight, a never-ending stream of inhumanity; the man dragging Dana into the car, the pair of them struggling, the woman crawling into the front seat; time crashing together like cymbals in my skull, I'm here but I'm not, I'm elsewhere, the graveyard in the gloom, the moon high above, and it's my fault, she's gone, because I left her alone, and he's hollering it at me, the spit flying from his mouth, _you should have stayed with her _-

There's the screech of car tyres, and I roll out of the way, screaming in agony as I land on my shattered shoulder, the car nearly crushing me as it speeds off, more like a black hearse than a car, a white cross displayed on the back window like a sign, like a warning -

"Viv! _Viv!_" Kayla screams out of sight, and I crawl towards the ditch, every movement making me scream in echo, leaving a trail of blood, drawing the dead like flies. Somehow I reach the edge of the ditch, nearly blacking out with the effort, only to see through the blur of crimson and black, Ainslie wrestling with a Walker, Kayla bringing her baseball bat down on its back and arms, futilely trying to break its grip on the girl. Head spinning, hand shaking, I raise my gun, pointing it at the Walker, the world blinking in and out of existence. I say a prayer and pull the trigger.

* * *

_Dig up her bones but leave the soul alone_  
_Let her find a way to a better place_  
_Broken dreams and silent screams_  
_Empty churches with soulless curses_  
_We found a way to escape the day_

We stumble through the cornfield, the dead hard on our heels. I stagger, Ainslie catching my hand and hauling me on, jerking my shoulder, forcing me to choke down a scream, and that's when I see it, the bite-mark on her wrist, the blood smearing her skin. I slow down, the world splintering. Our eyes meet. She shakes her head, the sunlight striking the copper of her hair like an anvil, and I nod, the gesture hollow, empty.

And still we stumble on, without Drew, without Dana, the screech of tyres replaying over and over in my mind. Grief and guilt keep hitting my heart like tidal waves, the blood loss lending a dreamlike quality to the landscape; that this isn't quite real. In the distance, a church spire spirals into the sky, promising false shelter. There are no bullets left, only blood, so we head in the direction of the spire, seeking sanctuary. We trip and fall, but still we fight on, shoving stalks aside, the sun beating down on our heads. And all the time they're behind us, like shadows; like the fear that stalks you in the middle of the night.

Then we're on grass, not soil, standing in the shadow cast by the church, its windows shuttered tight, the main door closed against the world outside. All around us is the dead, buried and unburied, walking and not, ancient graves and limbs littering the ground. A holocaust has happened here. We head towards the church, wildly weaving round Walkers as we go, avoiding their outstretched hands. We have no weapons apart from the now empty gun and Morgan's flick-knife, Kayla having lost the baseball bat during our headlong flight out of the ditch and into the fields.

We cross the pavilion, tripping over bones, fireworks of pain exploding behind my eyes. I throw myself against the church door, but it doesn't give way beneath my weight. As I slump against the weather-beaten wood, Kayla tries the heavy handle, rattling it with desperate hands. Ainslie stands with her back turned to us, holding the gun by her side, watching as the Walkers approach us. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. We're surrounded on all sides, the dead coming from all directions. Our only chance is getting inside the church. With gritted teeth, I haul myself over to Kayla, twisting and turning the handle to no avail -

"Go away!" somebody from inside shouts, stunning us all, Ainslie turning around, hopeless hope living and dying in her eyes.

I let go of the handle, just staring at it, before suddenly and savagely booting the door, rage rendering me almost insensible.

"Open the bloody door!" I scream, battering my fists off the battered wood. "There are kids out here!"

"I'm sorry, I can't help you. Now please go, before they come!"

"They're already here, dumbass!" I cry. "That's why you need to let us in!"

Silence.

"Open the goddamn door! _Please!_" I beg, nearly passing out with the pain now.

But again, all there is, is silence. The Walkers are almost on top of us. This is it, the end. Ainslie calmly comes over to us, pulling something out of her pocket; Kayla curled up on the ground, clinging to my leg, the door the only thing keeping me upright. There's defeat in Ainslie's eyes, like she's submitting to death. I half turn away from her, remembering the bite-mark on her wrist, but something like rebellion rises up in me. She's still here, she's still her. It doesn't have to end this way. With the last of my strength, I force Kayla to her feet -

There's a gunshot, Ainslie slumping to the ground, gun falling from her grasp. It makes no sense. There were no bullets left... Then I remember her pulling something out of her pocket, and I realise she must have been saving a bullet for the last, and the world reels and spins around us. I pull the flick-knife from my pocket, almost fainting now as I shield the screaming Kayla with my body.

"Stay behind me!" I holler, staggering forwards to meet the horde. "Don't let any of them get a hold of you!"

But despite the fight, the futile struggle for survival, the end comes anyways.

_Dig up her bones but leave the soul alone_  
_Lost in the pages of self made cages_  
_Life slips away and the ghosts come to play_  
_These are hard times_  
_These are hard times for dreamers_  
_And love lost believers_


	13. Embers

**Embers**

It feels like I'm becoming detached from my body, my soul being wrenched from flesh and sinew. Oddly I remember the river, walking along its banks with Jamie, my hand unconsciously cupping the curve of my belly... Then the song of time fills the air, drowning out my screams, the walls of the TARDIS control room flickering into view, hexagonal roundels hovering in mid air, briefly blinking out of existence, then back into being.

Pavilion becomes platform, the green glow of the Time Rotor pulsing over my pale skin. The dead fall back before fading. Six coral pillars stand sentinel, surrounding, sheltering. For a moment I'm suspended between two worlds, all of time and space hanging in the balance as I traverse the halls of the dead. Then I crash back into my corpse, the pain no longer numb but electric, vital, my blood baptizing me back into life.

My body convulses, back arching, another scream tearing its way out from my throat. Hands push me down, hands that burn, amber dust scorching a trail through the air, making me choke. His voice is low, ragged, _no, no, no, _and agony piles upon agony as I realise through the pain that he's dying, just like me, and he'll return, just like me, both of us different, yet the same. But this is wrong, it's not meant to be like this, _he's_ not meant to be like this -

"Doctor," I whisper, struggling to fight the darkness, "I - I tried to find you..." My voice becomes a void, empty, silent, echoing.

"I know, I know," he whispers back, pushing the hair out of my eyes with a hand that shakes, "but it looks like I beat you to it."

My lips fight to form a smile, but they lose. Dead hands batter the TARDIS doors, and I remember the houses I was in, the homes that weren't mine, the doorknob twisting and turning, death on the doorstep, trying to get in. Now I'm dancing cheek to cheek with death, one last waltz, the lights dimming, the music dying.

"Come on, Holmes," he cajoles, voice cracking, "don't die on me, not now, not this time." But his humour misses its mark, and I close my eyes, the pain pulling me under. "No!" the Doctor screams. "No!" His anguish resurrects me, but it's life I'm not sure I want anymore as the agony accelerates through my body again. I look up at his face, faintly wondering at how my life has come full circle; he was there when I was born, and now he's here when I die. Then another wave of pain hits me and I'm falling into darkness again...

Yet for one long moment, my gaze crashes into his, and there's grief and anguish in his eyes, a maelstrom of madness, and then his hands are on me, branding my skin, a storm of golden dust engulfing us both. My flesh is on fire, reducing me to dust and I'm screaming, the sound scorching my throat as his touch sears the soul out of me. Death and life battle in my veins, my body their battleground, and still I scream, skeleton writhing in the flames, no phoenix rising from the ashes. All that can be found in the flames is torment and fire and damnation, and I damn him, I damn my Doctor for he is my destruction.

_When these eyes are wide  
And the heart is still__  
__I'll come find you__  
__I'll come find you__  
__I'll look everywhere__  
Through the cinders and smoke_

* * *

I'm falling, falling, falling. Eternity and embers echo down the years and yet I still fall, flesh consumed by flame. But from death comes life and the pain starts to recede like the tide, leaving bone and blood exposed to the elements, raw and vulnerable. A primeval gasp escapes my throat as my body convulses into existence again before crashing back onto the platform, the dead around me, dwelling in darkness.

* * *

My eyelids flicker open, seeing nothing but coral and emerald, the heraldry of time itself. Memories rush through my mind like the river; the Doctor's lips brushing my forehead, an old garden shed, a tin of baked beans, empty streets flashing past, feet pounding pavement, Morgan's dark eyes, Duane's head bent over a comic book, Rick walking away from me, the greater good, Drew's blood spilling across the sunbaked ground, the bullet hitting bone, Dana being dragged away, the screech of tyres, the bite on Ainslie's wrist, a church spire, Kayla's desperate screams as she died -

I jolt upwards, pushed into the present by the past, and I collapse onto my side, coughing my guts up. The Doctor is half slumped across the controls, his suit singed and torn, but still irrevocably him. Somehow I manage to crawl across the gridded panelling of the platform, the metal clanging under my hands and knees as I drag my body towards the Time Rotor. I try to haul myself to my feet, using the console for support, but the last of my feeble strength fades from me, leaving me lying there like the pieces of a broken doll.

"Am I still me?" the Doctor mutters blearily. "Or am I just an assemblage of atoms in splendid disarray?"

I don't answer him. I can't. It feels like I've fallen thousands of feet; that I'm still falling. I curl up into a ball, wrapping my arms around my head, the tears burning my flesh like the Doctor's touch. He should have just let me go. Now I have to live with the loss of their lives, their blood on my hands, and I can't, I can't live with myself. Death would have been an escape, the coward's way out. _It still can be... _

The platform starts to shake. I raise my head, tears streaking my skin. Then the Time Rotor roars into life, the cloister bell clanging, the whole console room now shuddering, rattling the teeth in my skull. The Doctor yells something incomprehensible; his voice drowned out as something suddenly explodes from overhead, showering sparks down on us. I crawl under the console, trying to shelter beneath its bulk, the Doctor thumping buttons and pulling levers, all but collapsing onto the console again, only holding himself upright by clinging onto the emergency cord. But despite his desperate efforts, the world starts to fade out of existence around us, dying a second death.

* * *

I lie there, staring up at the endless sky. The TARDIS is gone. The Doctor stirs beside me. My hand reaches for his. She's not coming back, this I know now. She saved us, but it came at a cost, and she can only settle the debt by leaving us behind. We are her bond. Then the snarling starts, like a mounting crescendo, marking the beginning of the hunt. But still I lie there, staring up at the endless sky. I fled into the stars to escape my past. I fell through the burning blue to find my future. I took the long road home and found nothing but barred doors and death.

The snarling becomes louder, the sound searing my soul. The Doctor tries to sit up, but he slumps against my shoulder instead, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Almost against my will, my hand reaches for a weapon, for anything. Skin scrapes the serrated edge of a knife, my fingers closing almost instinctually around the handle. As if in another life, I remember embedding it in a skull, before colliding with concrete, grazing my flesh off a gravestone, limbs lashing out as they descended, Kayla's desperate screams as they devoured us -

I scrunch up my eyes, trying to hold back the tears even as I hold the knife, ready to strike as the shock of living and dying strikes me in the heart over and over again. The knife feels like solid ground in a spinning world, one last gift given to me by the TARDIS, silently saying that I have to fight on, that the war isn't over yet. But most of all it's a reminder of Morgan; that maybe he and his son can still be saved, even when everything else seems lost.

"The resolution of its partial horror," the Doctor slurs, startling me, "Yet the enchainment of past and future/Woven in the weakness of the changing body/Protects mankind from heaven and damnation/Which flesh cannot endure."

For a moment I stare at him, seeing yet not seeing him. Parchment pale skin. Ancient eyes. Old and young all at once. A stranger. A friend. The only family I've ever known. And I'm all he has left. With a sudden rush of rebellion against death, I'm somehow on my feet, somehow hauling him to his. He reels and lurches, and it takes me all my strength to keep us both upright.

We stand there, together, trying to resist the pull of gravity, watching as the Walkers descend, swarming the alley the TARDIS abandoned us in. This is it. We either live or die in this moment, even as we lived and died before, like embers in eternity.

* * *

We stagger out of the alley and into Main Street, or so the blood-splattered sign says, the Doctor dragging his feet, a dead weight, my only anchor. The sun pounds down on our heads as we move, the sky insultingly blue, a slight haze in the air lending the landscape a dreamlike quality. We pass tanks, jeeps, Humvees, even a parked helicopter, all empty, all abandoned. Some are burnt out wrecks, others merely scorched. Upturned cars litter the road, along with half a bus, crushed and charred, its windows blown out, seats mangled. Papers blow along the pavement in the faint breeze, mingling with debris and destruction.

Crows caw overhead, the sound drilling into my skull, the lament of my guilt. Where we are in terms of time, I don't know, and I don't care. The dead are on our heels and we can barely put one foot in front of the other. As if on cue, my knees give way. Slumping against the side of a shop front with shattered windows, I waste vital seconds in catching my breath. The Doctor rests his head against my shoulder, his own breath coming in huge rasps. I glance up, eye reluctantly caught by the high-rised horizon, the soaring silver mirrored tower in the distance reflecting the ever changing moods of the sky.

Then we're moving again, constantly crashing into the red and white striped safety barriers scattered randomly across the road, tripping over their metal cousins lying on the ground, feet becoming caught in the flimsy bars. We round a corner, only to be confronted with the sight of a huge heaving mass of Walkers, their backs turned to us as they shamble aimlessly along the street, heading towards the horizon. But across the way, another horde are heading right in our direction, forcing us to turn back, right into the path of those pursuing us.

With stars exploding in front of my eyes, I drag the Doctor towards the nearest door, and for a moment, I'm back at the church, pleading for the stranger inside to let us in. But not this time; I'm not going to beg anymore, debasing myself like a dog scavenging for scraps. As the Doctor slumps against the side of the entry-way, whacking his head almost comically off the intercom, I quickly search through his suit pockets, my fingers closing around the sonic. Stowing away the flick-knife in my own pocket, I pull out the sonic instead, knocking aside the rotting hand still clutching the ornate door handle, trying not to think of who it belonged to, some other stranger seeking sanctuary where there was none to be found.

Pointing the sonic at the lock, its buzzing filling the air, I glance over my shoulder, heart nearly stopping again at the sight of them nearly on top of us. Then the lock clicks into life, and I'm shoving the Doctor through the doorway, slamming the door behind me, plunging us into darkness. I point the sonic at the lock again, collapsing against the wall as dead hands batter the door, death on the doorstep, history repeating itself, the Doctor falling to his knees, burying his head in his hands –

Something grabs my elbow, and I whirl around, slamming the sonic into its skull, brain matter and blood exploding over me. The Walker collapses onto the ground, a stiletto heel sliding off its desiccated foot. Gasping heavily, I straighten up, only to be greeted by the sight of four or five others stumbling towards us, all suits and pencil skirts, the average office drone. The narrow vestibule gives me the advantage, allowing me to take them out one by one, until there's no more. Head spinning, I fall to my knees, the bloodied sonic bashed and broken between my fingers from the sheer impact of metal meeting cranium –

There's an ominous creaking, followed by the sound of splintering. I raise my head, only to see the door starting to give way under the sheer weight of dead matter, the hinges almost snapping in their casings. Gritting my teeth, I haul the Doctor to his feet, dragging him by the elbow towards the sweeping staircase. We only manage to climb a flight or so when the door gives way, the dead swarming the vestibule below.

* * *

I shove the filing cabinet in front of the door, trying to keep them out long enough for me to try and find a way out of here. But there's only one way in and out, and that's the very same door I've just barricaded. The Doctor is sprawled face down on an imposing glass plated desk, its owner hanging from the light fitting, legs kicking, arms flailing, eyes horribly bulging. The strangled screech coming from its bloated windpipe is more than I can bear, and I hurl a printer across the room, taking savage satisfaction in the way it smashes to pieces as it strikes the wall. Then my legs give way again, the bland beige carpet rushing up to meet me.

I just lie there, stunned, staring up at the swirling loops sweeping across the ceiling. The dead scrape and snarl at the door, their claw like fingernails gouging out the wood in expectation of our flesh, flesh that's not even human.

"What have you done to me!?" I suddenly scream at the Doctor. "What did you do!?"

But he doesn't answer me. And what can he say anyways? That's he burned away the last vestiges of my humanity? Against my will, I remember the day we met, the day when I discovered the truth; that the strangers who walked through my past as a child and the man who I called Jimbo, the bow-tied best friend and betrayer of my teen years, were all one and the same. That was the day everything changed, when I finally realised my life wasn't what it was; that I was a stranger to myself.

I'd been taken by an ancient alien race hell-bent on re-establishing their bloodline by using humans as surrogates for creating some heirs and spares, the standard sci-fi nightmare a girl usually finds herself in on a Saturday night after a bevy too many, and the Doctor waltzed in, trying to save the day. Except he didn't. It was me who ended the war before it had even begun, nearly dying in the process. But he saved me - or what was left of me anyways.

My humanity had been taken, spliced with another species, turning me into some sort of hybrid. After he tried to mop up the mess the best he could, the Doctor just took off. He came back from time to time, and I tried to carry on with my life as best as I could, but then I lost the baby, and it was like losing Alice all over again. But the vital difference was, I had somebody to blame now.

I'd blamed myself for Alice's death, but when I found out who Jimbo really was, that he knew she was going to die, that he just stood there and let it happen due to some inexorable time law or some shit like that, all the guilt and blame and grief coalesced into a burning venomous hatred. The hatred had a target now. I blamed the Doctor. I still do. But the maddest thing is, I don't blame the Doctor now, but the Doctor then, who he will become.

For him it's not happened yet. Her blood isn't on his hands. And when I lost the baby, I blamed the other him for that too, because again, it had already happened to him, and he did fuck all about it. To escape the hell, I ran away with the man who was its architect, and here I am, not knowing who I am anymore, trying to save the man responsible for making me lose what was left of me.

I'm so lost in my tumultuous thoughts, I don't hear it at first, the timid knocking on the glass. Then it gets louder, scattering my sanity to the wind. Somebody's tapping on the window like bloody Peter Pan. I sit up, incredulity lending me strength. Even the Doctor raises his head from the desk, brow furrowing. The filing cabinet shunts forwards, ruching up the carpet, but I barely notice it, just staring in shock at the face in the window staring back at me through the glass.


	14. Cicatrix

**Cicatrix **

_Sometimes tears say all there is to say  
Sometimes your first scars won't ever fade away_

_It's the end where I begin  
It's the end where I begin_

_Now I'm alive  
and my ghosts are gone..._

_What don't kill a heart  
Only makes it strong_

_It's the end where I  
end where I  
end where I begin_

Somehow I'm at the window, flinging the sash up. Crouched down on the fire-escape outside, is a bloke, young, not bad looking, wearing a sort of reddish brown skip hat and matching back-pack. He straightens up, eyes widening at the chaos of my blood splattered appearance. But he looks just as preposterous to me as I do to him, and I start laughing almost hysterically, thinking of Rick and how he rambled on about co-incidence and fate; that he and I were meant to meet. But what about Kayla and the others? Were we meant to meet as well? Or did they have to die so I could end up at this window at this precise point in time, in order to meet this bloke and his skip-hat? Who knows, and who really cares? It's not like there's actually anyone left to care -

"Wake up and smell the coffee, Morticia!" the bloke yelps, shaking me roughly by the shoulders, snapping me back to reality. "We need to get out of here!"

Just as he says this, the filing cabinet edges forwards even further, the door now nearly coming off its hinges. The bloke and I exchange a look, and without a word, he swings his legs over the sill, before helping me drag the Doctor over to the window as the filing cabinet makes its last evolution away from the door. We make it out onto the fire-escape just before the door gives way, the bloke slamming the window shut.

For a moment we just stand there staring at each other, then the Doctor slumps to the ground, breaking the spell. As the bloke hastily slides the straps of his back-pack over his shoulders, I lean on the railing, elbows akimbo, limbs feeling like liquid, like they no longer belong to me. One minute, I'm hurling printers at the wall, the next I'm barely able to move -

"Your body's trying to stabilize itself," the Doctor gasps, clutching his side, "but don't worry, when your central nervous system settles down, the rest of you will fall into place – welll, sort of."

The bloke freezes at this, looking at the Doctor in confusion. I just do the same. I know he can read minds but seriously?

"It'll wear off," the Doctor continues, confusing the bloke even more, "it's just a side-effect. A rather nifty one I might add."

I raise an eyebrow at this, imagining myself delivering the Doctor a rather nifty right hook. Catching this captivating mental image, he tries to grin, but it comes out more like a grimace. Then there's a huge thud, making us all jump, as the dead throw themselves against the window in frenzied bloodlust. The bloke stares at them, rooted to the spot in terror, before shaking his head and snapping out of his trance, hastily unzipping his back-pack and rummaging through it one-handed, his gaze riveted on the window the whole time.

"What's down there?" I suddenly demand, startling him.

"On the street?" the bloke replies, even more confused now. "Just geeks, man. Nothing else."

"No, they were heading towards something," I spit, remembering the horde heading towards the horizon. By rights, they should have been joining in the hunt, but something else had caught their attention, something bigger than us.

The bloke pales slightly as he pulls a can of white spray paint out of his back-pack. "I have a group nearby," he says, shaking it, "the shit's sort of hitting the fan where they are so I hope that something you're talking about isn't them."

I don't say anything, just watching as he removes the lid, resisting the urge to roll my eyes as he drops it.

"You guys got a group?" the bloke asks, retrieving the lid.

I shake my head.

"You looking for food?"

Again, I shake my head.

"What are you doing here, then?" he asks, frowning. "Atlanta's a death-trap."

"What are _you _doing here, eh?" I retort, whirling on him. "Pretending to be Super Mario with your little skip-hat and fire-escape frolics?"

"I'm a scout," he says, spraying a white _x _on the wall beside the window, "I get supplies, like toilet roll and deodorant, you know?"

The next thing he knows is that I'm pinning him against the brick, right on top of his cross, the bloodied sonic rammed right against his temple. The Doctor objects with a mild 'Oi!' but he's too busy suffering for his sins to do anything else. "Where is she?" I say from between gritted teeth, ignoring the noise of glass beginning to crack and the way the bloke's face drains of colour at the sound, annoyed at the fact he seems more frightened of that than me.

"Where's who?" he asks, bewildered, eyes darting wildly between me and the window, hands half raised in front of him, the can of spray-paint suddenly looking very much like a weapon. With one swift movement, I knock it aside before he can try and mace me with it. The bloke watches it roll to a halt, swallowing hard as I press the point of the sonic into his skull even further. "What is that _thing_ you've got?" he says almost scornfully before he can stop himself. "Is it some kind of toy?"

The Doctor buries his face in his hands, shaking his head to himself.

"Don't act the fool, _fool_," I spit. "That cross, I've seen it before" -

- "It's not a cross, Vivien," the Doctor says quietly, raising his head from his hands, "it's an _x, _just a mark to show this area is no longer safe to access. Am I right?" he fires at the bloke who nods frantically in agreement.

I yank the bloke forward by the scruff of his neck, the imprint of the _x _staining the back of his polo-shirt. But the Doctor's right, it's not a cross, not the kind I'm thinking about anyways, and bitter regret rises in me at the memory of the white cross I seen in the back of the black car. Then I let go of the bloke, realising what I've done, that I've crossed some sort of line by threatening him like that, before realising it's a line I crossed a long time ago, from the minute I pulled the trigger of that gun Ainslie gave me, shooting that woman in the thigh to bring her down, almost like it was instinctual.

From that moment, I was gone, no going back. If I'd raised the gun any higher, I would have killed her. Maybe I should have. Maybe I should have killed the man along with her, then I could have taken the three girls and got them the hell out of there by stealing the black car and hitting the road - I take a step back, recoiling not from my thoughts, but from my lack of conscience in thinking them.

The Doctor stares at me, the blood draining from his face, and I realise he's reading my mind again, walking amongst the darkness of my desires, recoiling from them in return. I'm not his Vi anymore, his plucky little companion with the attitude problem, the tart with the heart. I'm a monster molded by monsters, allowing them to drag me down into the abyss.

The bloke snatches up his back-pack, sliding its straps over his shoulders, backing away from me and the window. I whirl on him, whipping out Morgan's flick-knife and pressing the edge of its blade against his throat, the Doctor half rising from where he's sitting on the platform.

"Keep out of this, Doctor," I say shakily, "I know what I'm doing."

"I don't think you do," he says dangerously, face darkening.

"You're a scout, yes?" I say to the bloke.

He barely manages to nod, gaze darting wildly between me and the rapidly fracturing window.

"You get us out of here; I let you go, right?" I say. "And you give us whatever you've got in that back-pack of yours. Food, water, the lot."

"Vivien!"

"Your group has supplies, yes?" I fire at the bloke, ignoring the Doctor.

The bloke barely nods again.

"You're not just saying that to save your neck, are you?" I spit, stowing away the sonic in my pocket. "If they don't have supplies, you can keep what you've got."

The bloke just stares at me like I'm mad.

"Well do they or not!?"

"They do! They do!"

"Fine, that's that sorted, then," I snap, lowering the flick-knife, "so get to it Baden-Powell, before we're all turned into human kebabs."

* * *

The bloke leads us through a warren of office blocks and fire-escapes, before coming to a halt at a back door, his face nervous. The Doctor throws off my hand, his own face filled with quiet wrath. He's angry at my actions, but it was done to keep us alive. We need somewhere to hole up, somewhere safe. I don't know how much longer we can keep running, especially in the state we're in, after being so brutally pulled back from the brink of the grave.

"I'm not angry," the Doctor says from between gritted teeth, "I'm disappointed in you, at what you've done."

"Deal with it," I retort. "I had to for weeks, when I was out on the road and on my own."

The Doctor looks away, suddenly and inexplicably shamefaced. I stare at him, sidetracked by confusion, before shaking my head, trying to clear it. I can't deal with his mind-games, not now, not at this time. The bloke glances between us, face becoming even more nervous as his gaze drops to the flick-knife in my hand.

"Where are we?" I fire at him, making him flinch.

"Somewhere safe."

"Enough with the smart answers," I say, "why are you not with your group? You ditching them or something?"

The bloke's jaw tightens.

"Never mind," I say, dismissing him, "let's see what you've got in that back-pack of yours."

Exchanging a dark glance with the Doctor, the bloke slides the back-pack off his shoulders again, before handing it over to me. I snatch it from his fingers, taking a savage satisfaction in the way he whips his hand back, before unzipping it and rifling through its contents, raising my eyebrows at the sight of his huge haul: bog roll, spray-on deodorants, a box of cereal, various tins, granola bars, bottles of water and inexplicably a small teddy bear decorated with a pink bow round its neck.

"What's your name?" the Doctor asks the bloke quietly, startling us both.

"G-Glenn," the bloke stutters.

"I'm the Doctor," the Doctor says, holding out his hand, Glenn taking it with some trepidation, the pair then bizarrely shaking hands.

"Doctor who?" Glenn asks, ramming his hands into his pockets.

"Just the Doctor."

"Enough of the pleasantries," I interrupt, taking out two bottles of water and a handful of granola bars, before handing the back-pack back to Glenn, "you can shove off now."

Glenn just shakes his head at me in disbelief. "You know, I was going to help you get out of there anyways," he says, voice cracking, "so you didn't need to point a probe at me or hold a knife to my throat. That was just... just completely _uncalled_ for."

"Maybe you should have just kept walking then," I say coldly, "instead of tapping the window like bloody Peter Pan. I mean, do I look like Wendy to you? No, I don't. And he's hardly Tinkerbell, is he?" I spit, jerking my head at the Doctor, who just looks away, shoulders hunching as he does so.

Glenn just stares at me like I'm mad, making something inside me snap.

"Listen to me, sunshine," I say, marching up to him so we're nose to nose, "I bet you've got a cosy little camp to go back to somewhere, all safe and sound. See us, we don't have anything like that. You have no idea what it's like out there, out on the road, trying to stay one step ahead of these things. Right now, you're just getting a little taster of it, but we've been force-fed reality in huge motherfucking doses since this shit-storm started, so don't stand there and play the victim, like this is some soap opera."

"I would have taken you both back to my camp," Glenn says from between gritted teeth, "we would have helped you. But not now, not after what you did."

"We don't need your help," I lie, almost snarling at him, "so just piss off back to where you came from before I change my mind about cutting you from ear to ear."

Glenn's face pales, but he stands his ground, gesturing to my blood-splattered clothes. "What happened to you?" he asks quietly, wrong footing me for a moment. "Was it the geeks?"

"It wasn't the dead," I say, gaze boring into his, "it was the living."

* * *

I check the room next door, but it's empty, just a fancy looking desk and leather office chair, with abstract art lining the walls above the bookcases and stainless steel filing cabinets streamlined to within an inch of their lives. A laptop lies half closed on top of one of them, the screen covered with a thick film of dust. I start rummaging through the desk drawers, scoring big-time when I find half a bottle of Glendfiddich stashed beneath some brochures. Tucking it beneath my arm, I search on, spurred on by my success, only to inexplicably find a whip and some furry handcuffs.

Feeling slightly sick, I slam the drawer shut, moving onto the filing cabinets instead. But there's nothing there, only rows and rows of documents that mean nothing to me. I go back into the waiting room, where the Doctor is sitting on one of the sofas, head buried in his hands. Putting the bottle of Glenfiddich down on the window-sill, disturbing a spider that skitters away in terror, I then ransack the drawers of the desk in here, unearthing some bubblegum and glossy magazines, the pouting faces on the front covers striking me as almost absurdly amusing. Where are they now, these supermodels and Oscar-winning actresses? Are they holed up in some Hollywood mansion, or are they wandering the streets somewhere, scavenging for flesh as I scavenge for survival up here?

"Glenn said the rest of the building was secure - for the time being anyways," I say to the Doctor, making him glance up. "We can hide out here, before making our next move." As in getting to Morgan and Duane before they get to Atlanta, I add silently in my head, forgetting for a moment the Doctor can read my mind.

"We're already in Atlanta," the Doctor says abruptly, stunning me for a second.

"When?" I whisper, gripping the edge of the desk for support.

"I don't know," he says, massaging his shoulder, "there are too many time disturbances for me to tell."

"Time disturbances?"

"Disturbances in time, Vivien," the Doctor snaps, gesturing impatiently at me, "probably because of you."

"Me?"

"I've been inside your head, reading your memory like a book," the Doctor snaps again, "you've been getting flashbacks to the past and glimpses of the future, audio and visual. It's making time fluctuate – I was just here in Atlanta, by the way - in fact, I probably still am actually, about to leap off the top of a multi-storey car park somewhere, give or take a few hours."

"Is that why you were regenerating?" I say, stirring myself.

"Yeah," the Doctor says, slumping back against the sofa, "whole load of them chased me up to the top. Thought I could survive the fall, since it was either jump or be torn apart."

Silence.

"Can you not back-track to where you jumped, so we can hijack the TARDIS as she comes back?" I then say in a rush, a thousand plans unfurling in my head, thinking of all the mistakes I've made that could be fixed with a time machine.

"No and no and no!" the Doctor bellows, standing up with some difficulty. "Do you want to blow this part of this universe up!?"

"Maybe it would be better to," I say sullenly. "It would be a kindness."

The Doctor just stares at me, body shaking from head to foot, the ghost of Gallifrey silently dividing us.

"The TARDIS isn't coming back, by the way," I then point out, trying to keep my voice steady, "this would be our last chance to get a ride out of here."

"What, you just walking away from your world?"

"No, but we'd stand a better chance of saving it if we had the TARDIS."

"She'll come back in her own time."

"She's not coming back, Doctor. What part of that don't you understand!?"

"How do you know she won't?"

"She just won't. She can't. This world is killing her," I say, collapsing onto the edge of the desk. "And don't ask me how I know that. I just... I just do, I sense it. Saving us like that, it was her last stand. Death is life. Don't tell me that's not affecting her, because it is, I mean, it was."

The Doctor just studies me for a long moment, swaying slightly on the spot.

"This Rick," he says slowly, dangerously, "you and him weren't supposed to meet. You never were."

"Oh really?" I spit, standing up this time. "How come the TARDIS just jettisoned us here? Of all the places she could have dumped us in; it just had to be here, in Atlanta, where he went, where he could still be!"

"She only brought us here because she'd already been here," the Doctor says coolly, sitting back down, wincing slightly as he does so, "a sort of echo you might say, due to the time disturbances."

"Bullshit."

"And it wasn't your fault they died," the Doctor continues, steepling his fingers together, "they would have died anyways, and they did, regardless of you."

"I was going to leave them on their own, out on the road, a bunch of stupid kids" -

- "They'd more or less survived on their own so far, barring the intervention of others," the Doctor says, "they didn't need you, not really."

I just stare at him in disbelief.

"And you wouldn't have left them anyways," the Doctor says, sighing heavily, "even if you planned to, you wouldn't have done it."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I know you," the Doctor says quietly.

Silence.

"But people are dead because of me, Doctor, because I failed to save them," I then say, voice cracking, "people that were relying on me. Rick was scared, he didn't want to be alone. But I left him alone. Morgan and Duane... Ainslie and the others... I either left them or I was going to, and that's the truth of it."

"What does it matter, Vivien? They're gone, or they're good as gone," the Doctor says, rumpling up his hair with agitated fingers, "and the world's going with them."

"What does it matter!?" I spit, standing up again, fists clenched by my sides, "people are dead, Doctor, people are _dying_. That's what fucking matters. This is my planet and its people are suffering and we have to stop it somehow, or there'll be nothing left."

"I don't know how to stop it," the Doctor says, stunning me. "I don't know how it started, and I don't know how to end it. And now we've lost the TARDIS on top of everything else, just when we need her the most."

I sit back down on the edge of the desk, my body failing me again. It's becoming stronger in fits and starts, but I don't have the luxury of convalescing. I have to do something, I have to find -

"Rick is not the answer!" the Doctor explodes, eyes bulging. "He never was and he never will be. He was just some superstitious small-town cop who was scared that's all. It was sheer co-incidence you found him when you did."

I just stare him in disbelief for the umpteenth time, but he just lies down on the sofa, turning his back on me, dismissing me.

* * *

Night has fallen, the stars soaring high above us, barely visible through the grimy window. I put the bottle of water back down on the coffee table, tightening the lid as I do so, the Glenfiddich still standing untouched on the window sill. After barricading the door with a filing cabinet, history repeating itself, I spent the rest of the day and early evening falling into a fitful sleep, my body still adjusting to accommodate what damage the Doctor did to it. At times it felt like I was on fire, others like I was plunged into the coldest water, alternating between being weak and being well, my mind awhirl, awash with memories of the past.

I sit back, watching the Doctor hunched over the sonic, trying to fix it with Morgan's flick-knife and the laptop from next door, completely cannibalizing it for its contents. But the sonic keeps sparking in his hands, setting my teeth on edge. I chew on my lower lip, thinking of Glenn and his group, Morgan and Duane. We have to leave Atlanta and soon, so we can go back to King County -

"We can't go to King County," the Doctor says, not looking up, all his attention riveted almost unnaturally on the sonic, "you might punch a hole through the fabric of reality by meeting yourself, and while that sounds fun, I'm not in the mood for any more madness, metaphysical or otherwise."

I just stare at him in disbelief before exploding. "What the hell is your problem!?" I yell, leaping to my feet, psychopathic rage lending me strength.

The Doctor puts the sonic carefully down on the coffee table before folding his hands in his lap and studying me with an air of long suffering martyrdom, almost like he's hiding behind it like a mask.

"You really want to know what my problem is?" he says maddeningly polite. "It's you, how you're changing into someone else, someone I don't like; someone I can't even comprehend."

"You have a cheek to talk about changing," I splutter, "the man who can change his face at the drop of a hat; the man who changed me" -

- "I saved you," the Doctor says coldly, gripping the arm-rest almost for support, "you would have died if I hadn't channeled my regenerative energy into you. I took a chance in doing it, but I had no other choice but to."

Silence.

"How did you end up in Atlanta anyways?" I ask suddenly. "Were you trying to find me here or something?"

The Doctor averts his eyes, looking guiltily at the ground instead, reminding me of earlier, after I said he should get over what I had to do to survive out on the road on my own. I frown, suspicion battling with something else, something I don't want to face; something that's suspiciously like bitter disappointment at a childish delusion about to be destroyed all over again. I clench my fists by my sides as he raises his head, eyes ancient and unreadable.

"I tracked you to a house," he says quietly, almost gently, running his hand down the side of his face, "I found you, but I walked away. I... I wanted to study these things - those _people_ up close, without getting sidetracked. But it was easier said than done, then the TARDIS showed up, and I think she was trying to show me something, so I let her, instead of using her to find you again. Then I ended up in Atlanta, and, well..." his voice trails off, and he tugs at his earlobe, the gesture so irrevocably him, I have to turn away.

"Well, I know the rest?" I finish for him, fighting to keep my voice steady. "All I know is that I never stopped looking for you. I didn't walk away, I didn't give up, even when I should have, when it seemed like I'd lost you for good."

Silence.

"Why did the regeneration energy not kill me?" I then gabble, grasping at straws now, not wanting to face the fact he found me and walked away, leaving me on my own with the monsters. "I mean, it should have, shouldn't have it?"

"I took a chance on the fact there would just be enough... alien in you to sustain the strain," the Doctor says, voice cracking, "that particular species has the ability to regenerate, but on a lesser scale - all I did was mimic its structure, healing your injuries and burning out the infection before it took hold in your system. But if I tried that trick again, I would probably end up killing you because I didn't just burn out the infection, I also burnt out what they did to you. All that's left is a few tatters of what used to be your humanity, but I guess that's better than nothing, isn't it?"

I slap him across the face, the sound echoing like whiplash around the room. Then I'm gone, slamming the door behind me.

* * *

The door creaks open, but I don't look up, just staring down at the top of the desk like it's the most interesting thing ever. He crosses the floor, his gait unsteady, the movement laboured, like it's costing him a tithe of pain to just put one foot in front of the other, but still I don't look up. He found me, and he just walked away like my life meant nothing to him. After all we've been through, after all that's happened to us, and he just walked away.

"You left Rick, you left Morgan and Duane," the Doctor says quietly, almost accusingly, "and you were thinking of leaving these kids, even if you would never have carried it through in the end" -

- "Because that's what _you _do," I spit, finally looking at him, "you walk away, you never look back. That's the example you've set to me my whole life. You were the only constant I've ever known, so is it any wonder that I copied you?"

"No," the Doctor says, leaning on the desk, "it's different, you're different. It's not the same for you as it is for me" -

- "What does it matter, Doctor?" I snap. "We both run away in the end, don't we?"

"But you come back, or you try to," he says sadly, "you always come home in the end. You came back here, didn't you?"

I just stare at him, not sure if he means Atlanta or something else, something more.

"We can't run away this time, Vivien," the Doctor says tiredly, straightening up, face creasing with pain, "we're stuck here, stranded, earthbound, with not the foggiest idea where to start the search for an answer."

"But you must have seen this type of thing before," I say before I can stop myself, "I mean, that's like your modus operandi, absolute total bedlam, yeah? Like, say for example, we're heading for the Moulin Rouge, except we end up in Middle-earth instead, and before you know it, we're up to our ears in Orcs, and you've got Gandalf by your side, Aragorn on the other, and they've got their staffs and swords out, you've waving your sonic, and it's all epic and shit" -

- "Middle-earth doesn't exist, Vivien!" the Doctor explodes. "You've been reading too much Tolkien!"

"I don't read books, remember? Books are for nerds!"

"No, books are for clever people, not school drop-outs."

"I had to drop out of school! I was pregnant!" I spit.

"So? You could have still tried to educate yourself."

"You try educating yourself when you're trying to bring up a baby in a broken down caravan in the middle of nowhere!"

"It was your boyfriend's uncle's farm; that's hardly the middle of nowhere!"

"Oh yeah, sorry, I forgot, you don't do domesticity," I drawl, "domestics are for the apes – no wait, you can't call me an ape anymore, since I'm not human now."

The Doctor fixes me with a cold stare. "You're no longer _quite_ human."

"Same difference though, isn't it; I'm less alien, more human, maybe even Time Lord?" I say, pushing the point.

The Doctor snorts again, covering up his discomfort. "I think I prefer being the last Time Lord in existence, thank you very much."

"Good thing you've got all your precious books for company then, super Space-Nerd," I fire back. "Or you'd be a very lonely bi-ped."

"Maybe _you _should open a book now and again," the Doctor says coldly, "then you might find yourself less inclined to indulge in childish name-calling since your mind will be so elevated" -

- "Whatever," I say, cutting across him, "try changing a nappy now and again. It might not elevate the mind, but it certainly does the nostrils."

The Doctor just looks at me almost pityingly, shaking his head. "You should have tried to better yourself and your situation, Vivien," the Doctor says seriously. "After she died, you could have... you could have studied part-time, made something of your future" -

- "My daughter dies and you expect me to go and enrol in a college course?" I explode, unable to believe what he's saying. "She - she was my future, Doctor, I had - I had nothing else since you were so intent on leaving me behind all the time. When she died, she took everything with her, _everything_."

My eyes burn into his and he looks away. But then he doubles up, a terrible cry of pain escaping his lips. "Bloody hell!" I bellow, staggering to my own feet. "Are you alright?"

"Of course I'm not alright!" the Doctor snaps, still hunched over as I stumble towards him. "I've just jumped off the top of a multi-storey car-park for chrissake!"

I slump down onto the edge of the desk, feeling none too hot myself. Then I cast my mind back to the TARDIS disappearing as she did. "How did you find the TARDIS anyways?" I ask, massaging my temples with the tips of my fingers.

"I didn't," he mutters. "She found me. A few times. Just appeared out of nowhere" -

- "As she does" -

- "And then she finally took me to find you," he finishes abruptly. "I should have done it myself, but I didn't."

Silence.

"You're stinking, by the way," the Doctor says, face scrunched up in disgust.

"Make the obvious obvious, why don't you?" I spit, rubbing my neck. The skin feels all raw and raised from where it's healed over. Curious, I pull down the sleeve of what's left of my Gothic get-up, wanting to know what my flesh looks like in the aftermath of regenerating, only to recoil slightly at the sight. It's lobster red, with a curious shine to it, the scars crude and ugly. Maybe they'll fade in time, hopefully with the memories of their origins as well.

''Cicatrices," the Doctor says, making me glare at him. "Marks left by the healing of injured tissue."

I turn away from him, pulling my sleeve back up, not wanting to see what I've become, the battles I fought and lost.

"There's always been a ferocity in you, Vivien," the Doctor says quietly from behind me, "a ferocity that's now fighting its way free..." His voice fades into nothing, making me turn around, just in time to see him fall, like an empire reduced to ashes.


	15. Mad World

**Author's Note: Nothing Endures**_, a one-shot about the Doctor's desertion of Vivien, and _**The Alice To Your Wonderland,**_ a one-shot about the origins of Vivien and the Doctor's friendship, can both be found under the 'My Stories' section of my author profile. Videos for this story, including characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel under __**girlinashipwreck**_

* * *

**Mad World**

_When you try your best but you don't succeed_  
_When you get what you want but not what you need_  
_When you feel so tired but you can't sleep_  
_Stuck in reverse_

_When the tears come streaming down your face_  
_When you lose something you can't replace_  
_When you love someone but it goes to waste_  
_Could it be worse?_

_Lights will guide you home_  
_And ignite your bones_  
_I will try to fix you_

I slump against the side of the sofa, completely and utterly exhausted, fingertips stained the colour of earth, grains of tea trapped under my nails. Dawn is breaking, another day to perhaps die on. I stand up, making my way over to the window sill, head spinning as I snatch up the bottle of Glendfiddich, taking another swig of it. The alcohol burns through my veins, revitalizing me, and I slam the bottle back down. Staggering slightly, I sit back down on the ground, leaning against the desk this time, hugging my knees to my chest as I stare at the filing cabinet blocking the door.

After the Doctor collapsed last night, I dragged him to the sofa, hauling his ancient bones onto the cracked leather. I stood there for a long moment, mind racing with everything that had happened, how it had all led to this moment. Then I'd forced myself to focus, trying to recall everything he'd told me about regeneration. The only thing that stood out with any clarity was that the free radicals and tannin in tea were ideal for healing the synapses. Leaving the safety of our rooms, I'd searched for teabags, expecting death around every corner and finding none.

After unsuccessfully scouring the second and third floors, I hit pay dirt on the fourth, finding some boxes of teabags in an architect's office. _Charleston Tea Plantation, Rockville Raspberry_ and _Charleston Breakfast Tea_, tagless tea bags, loose leaf, pyramid tea bags - I used the lot, mixing them with water, trying and failing to boil them with the broken screwdriver, forcing it down his throat stone cold instead. I did this for hours, not stopping, not even when the bottled water ran out and I resorted to using stale water from various office coolers instead. And now here I am, dead on my feet, covered in blood, racked with guilt and hatred, using alcohol as a crutch like some drunkard.

I bury my face in my shaking hands, trying to hide from my lowest point. Then the Doctor stirs, making me raise my head, disbelief battling hope, hope triumphing as his eyelids flicker like butterfly wings, the movement so delicate it's almost imperceptible. I stagger to my feet, the walls shifting around me as I stumble towards him, wondering wildly if this is just a drunken dream, and in reality, he's gone from me, like he's always been gone from me. My shadow falls across his face, and I stare at him, willing him to wake, willing him to dream on so I don't have to deal with him and the damage he's done to me body and soul.

I didn't know it was possible to hate and love someone so much until I met the Doctor, until this very moment. I could have left him. I could have walked away. I could have gone to find those that I'd let down, who I'd lost. But I didn't. I stayed by the side of the man who walked away from me. Then his eyes open, staring almost unseeingly back at me, before focusing on my face, like he's trying to find me in the stranger that stands before him. His hand reaches for mine, faltering and frail, and I take it, bearing his burden for him, like I always have, like I always will.

"My Vivien," he whispers, "_my _Vivien."

* * *

I stare at my reflection, seeing myself through his eyes. They meet mine in the mirror, old and young all at once, and he steps forward, leaning heavily on his silver-topped antique cane as he does so. I avert my face, and he falters to a halt, looking at his feet instead. I glance at his cane, remembering raising an eyebrow as he pulled it out of his pocket, _that's Gallifreyan tailoring for you, bigger on the inside_, before explaining the cane's origins, how he'd purloined it from a plantation house, one of the places the TARDIS had taken him to, another jigsaw piece to fit together.

Whilst he'd been talking, it was like nothing had changed, but when the silence descended, it revealed how everything had. But I had to push it aside, like I have to with everything else. This isn't about me, and it never was. It's about taking back what is lost, the world where I was born, the place I fled from. I may have lost my humanity, but I'm not going to lose my home. But at the same time, I can't surrender my sins, Rick, Morgan and Duane; Ainslie and the others. There are those dead, and those gone, all lost to me, because of me.

"Why did they kill him?" I ask suddenly, fighting back the tears as I remember Drew slumping to the ground, the blood spilling across the asphalt. "Was it because he was the strongest? Because he was the bigger threat out of them both?"

The Doctor raises his head, his eyes meeting mine again. For a moment he deliberates, remembering my memories, turning the pages of my past. "That's a part of it," he then says carefully, "Dana was the weakest - vapid, shallow, scared... But it was more than that. The man... the man who took her, wanted her, and the woman with him... she knew this, and she went along with it."

My stomach turns at his words, bile rising in my throat. "But the woman was the one in charge, not him," I say with difficulty, gripping the edge of the sink for support. "_She_ did all the talking; _she_ pulled the trigger."

"I'm over nine hundred years old, Vivien," the Doctor says tiredly, "there's not much I haven't seen, and I see more in a moment than you will in a life-time. That woman might give the impression of being in charge, but she barely is. Whatever power she has, it's slipping through her fingers, and she's prepared to do anything to keep it, including shedding blood and turning a blind eye."

"Or maybe she can control them, but she doesn't because it's easier," I argue, "because she's a coward."

"Isn't it all just the same thing?" the Doctor says quietly. "Being a coward and turning a blind eye?"

Silence.

"How do you know all that by just looking at a memory?" I then ask, impressed against my will. "Is it a Time Lord thing?"

He nods, looking awkward, not wanting to elaborate any further. So I turn back to face the mirror, picking up the packet of baby-wipes pillaged from a desk on the second floor, before pulling out a wipe with shaking fingers, cleaning the rest of my blood-smeared skin with it. After he woke up, we spent the rest of the morning in the office, the Doctor dragging himself back into being, before coming here, hitting a restroom so I could tidy myself up.

But it's just an empty gesture, pretending to ready myself for round two, when all I want to do is run and hide somewhere. I'm barely holding myself together and the Doctor can barely walk. Plus there's so much to say that can't be said hanging in the balance between us, that it might just end up destroying what remains of our relationship. But again, this has to be put aside, not when there's so much at stake as it is. And what our next step is going to be, I don't know -

"The only thing I can think of is hitting this CDC your Rick Grimes mentioned," the Doctor says tiredly, and it takes a second for it to sink in he can still read my mind. "It's wearing off," he says tersely, "thank God."

" 'Thank God!?' " I spit, whirling on him. "What the fuck do you mean by that?"

"Don't swear," the Doctor says almost automatically.

"I'll fucking swear if I want to," I say, relishing the rage sweeping through me.

"Fine, swear all you want, see if I care," the Doctor retorts.

"I can bloody well see that you don't."

Silence.

"As I was saying," the Doctor then says, returning to the subject at hand, "before I was so crudely interrupted" -

- "I didn't interrupt you at all!"

"Well, you did just there! Deny that one, Morticia!"

I shake my head, turning my back on him.

"What I'm trying to say, is that I won't be walking through that minefield you call a mind for much longer," he repeats, making my fists curl up into balls by my side, "as the side-effects of the regeneration energy are wearing off. And it's a good thing they are too, since reading your memories are like reading a sixteen year old girl's secret diary" -

- "How so?" I say sarcastically, turning around again.

"Welll, for starters, there's your mawkish crush on Morgan Jones to consider" -

"My what!?"

"What is it with you, Vivien?" the Doctor bellows. "The world's ended and you're - you're getting butterflies over some middle-aged widower with a paunch!" -

- "That's enough!" I scream, rounding on him. "That's _enough!_"

The Doctor looks at me, his jaw tightening. "Yeah, you're right," he says, turning away from me, "that's enough."

* * *

I stand over the Doctor, arms folded across my chest. He sits on the top step, head buried in his hands. Within two seconds of setting foot outside the restroom, he collapsed, and here we are, wasting time -

"Wasting time is my raison d'être," the Doctor groans, making me lower my arms, shame filling me at my callousness.

"I'm sorry," I say, sitting down next to him.

"So am I," he says quietly, raising his head to look at me. "For - for everything. For walking away. For not being there."

I nod, looking away. Apologizing isn't enough, but him being sorry is the first step to me forgiving him, even when I don't forgive him for everything else - I turn to look at him again, my eyes growing wide as a terrible realization hits me, my heart nearly stopping in my chest -

"There are things you don't want me to see," the Doctor says, pre-empting me, "things I shouldn't see, yes?"

I nod, trying not to think of his future, how it collided with my past, my daughter, her death, his own -

"I can't see them," he says bluntly, "and if I try to, I'm met with a brick wall. So stop freaking out. It's giving me a headache."

"Sorry."

"And stop saying sorry, it's just making my headache worse."

Silence.

"How come I'm okay, and you're not?" I then ask curiously.

"I wouldn't say you're okay," the Doctor scoffs, "but physically, you're in a better state than I am."

"But why?"

"Youth versus age, Vivien," he booms, "youth wins every time."

"For God's sake, keep your voice down," I snap.

"Talk about the pot calling the kettle black," the Doctor points out, "after your little screaming session back there."

I look down at my battered black boots. "But, it's true," I then say petulantly, "sound draws them flies."

"Yet another pearl of wisdom from the indefatigable Morgan Jones" -

- "What the hell do you have against him?" I demand. "Are... are you _jealous _or something?"

"What, do you want me to be?"

Silence.

"He held a gun to your head," the Doctor then says coldly, "and while you might think his violence was justified, I don't think it was."

"He has a son to protect."

"So that's the key to your heart, then? Extreme paternal devotion" -

- "Will you just drop it!?" I exclaim.

"What, you want to talk about Rick instead?" the Doctor says, making my hackles rise. "How you think the stars are aligned when it comes to you and him" -

- "I don't think that at all!"

"Liar."

I bite my tongue, trying to keep calm. "I just think it's odd, that after all that time I spent out on the road on my own, I never met anyone," I say, "yet as soon as I set foot in that hospital, I meet Rick, almost to the minute of him coming out of his coma. Then I'm meeting Morgan, Duane, Suellen, Ainslie and the others, these cops, Glenn - It's like Rick was the tripwire, sparking all that off. I was just drifting out there, Doctor, then he came along, and everything happened all at once, one thing after another..."

The Doctor shakes his head. "None of that matters," he says, "we're going to the CDC, you and I, no deadweight."

I stare at him. "If anyone is deadweight, it's you," I say cruelly, "you can barely put one foot in front of the other as it is."

The Doctor's jaw tightens, but he takes the blow, accepting it. In my arrogance, I classed Rick and the others as deadweight, and now they're dead and gone, because I pushed them away when they needed me most; when _I_ needed them most. I knew I was losing myself, and it was only a matter of time before I did. I tried to hold onto who I was. I ran, I hid; I didn't fight, I didn't confront. I tried to help people. Then reality exploded in my face like a bomb, destroying all my illusions.

Now I kill the dead. Now I fight the living. Even if I can't shoot straight, even when I don't know one end of a gun from another, as long as there's a bullet in the barrel, I'll pull the trigger. And the Doctor can't deal with this, the eternal pacifist. Again though, we have to put our differences aside, but it'll easier said than done. But at the same time, in staying with the Doctor, I'm not letting go of what I did, of what happened. It's not over. I'll have to learn to live with the consequences of my actions. But there are still scores to settle and debts owed. The bloodshed that day will be repaid -

"Vivien," the Doctor says warningly, his voice cracking, but I shake my head at him, silencing him.

"I owe her," I say, my own voice trembling, "whoever that woman was, I owe her for what she did. Whoever she is, whoever these people are, I _owe _them, and that debt can only be settled by their blood, and I don't care how long it takes to do so. The dead aren't the only monsters, Doctor, the living are too, even me."

* * *

We stand on the roof-top, looking out at the ravaged city. The sun beats down on our heads. Sweat drips down my spine. I turn to face the Doctor, turning my back on the past, on all that happened - for now. For the time being, I have to face the future, no matter how hard it will be to do so. The Doctor folds up the map he took from one of the offices, shoving it into his pocket, his face grim. The darkness of my thoughts is dividing us, but he's trying to fight it, for both our sakes.

"We should stay off the streets," the Doctor says, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, "keep to the roof-tops as much as possible."

I glance askance at him, still finding it hard to wrap my head around his plan. On the surface it makes sense, but in reality, we're running a huge risk, attempting to navigate our way through a city ruled by the dead, with only a flick-knife to defend ourselves with and a handful of granola bars to keep us going. But he's a mad-man in a mad world, so I suppose it makes sense to him for us to embark on a suicide mission. As though to prove my point, the Doctor suddenly lobs the sonic over the edge of the roof, watching it arc through the air before freefalling towards the street below.

"What the hell did you do that for!?" I exclaim, shocked.

"Why the hell did you ram it into the cranium of a rotting corpse?"

"It was a knee-jerk reaction!"

"Learnt from your jerk of a boyfriend" -

My hand almost collides with the side of his face, but he grabs my wrist, gripping it with surprising strength. "I might be barely able to walk, Vivien," he says coldly, "but my reflexes are just as good as they were on Gallifrey." He then lets go of me, and I snatch my hand away, scowling at him. "The sonic is useless," he continues, addressing me as though I'm an imbecile, "because you've made it useless."

"How?"

"Let's just say carina fornicis and tech do not mix."

"Carina what?"

"Fornix, encephalon, glia - do I need to go on?"

I stare at him, eyes narrowing. "Where exactly did the TARDIS take you?" I ask, my words giving him whiplash as I advance on him. "And where did you find the time to change your suit as well?"

"In a time machine, time is like loose change you find down the back of the sofa," he says smartly, recovering himself, his grip tightening around the handle of his cane. "And anyways, you've got a cheek to talk - sartorially speaking, you're breaking boundaries, what with that Gothic get-up" -

- "Whatever," I say tiredly, "let's just get the hell out of here."

* * *

"You said we should stick to the roof-tops!" I snap, whirling on him.

"And you said we should find a vehicle!"

"When I said vehicle, I didn't mean a tank!"

The Doctor turns away from me, shoulders slumping. Even though he said we should stay off the streets, I thought it would make more sense to score some transportation. It would get us to the CDC a lot quicker for starters, even if it meant the Doctor had to hot-wire a car, but he just had to go one better and break into a tank of all things. And here we are, hitting yet another dead end -

"Whoa!" I holler.

"Whoa, what?" the Doctor asks, confused.

I point at a far corner, the shadows all but concealing the dead soldier's ravaged face, his white eyes watching us with an unblinking stare. I don't know if he's dead or undead. He just sits there, still, silent. The Doctor raises an eyebrow, before limping forwards, an odd air of anticipation radiating from him. I remain rooted to the spot, frozen by fear, remembering dead hands tearing into my flesh, rotting teeth sinking into my skin, ripping me apart, and then I'm lunging forwards, flick-knife raised high above my head -

"No!" the Doctor shouts, hauling me back, forcing me to face him. "Just let him be!"

I tear myself out of his grip, retreating from him, from the anger in his eyes. "Fine," I say with great difficulty, "but if we're taking the tank, he's not coming along for the ride."

* * *

The Doctor glances regretfully over his shoulder at the tank, before facing forwards again, dragging himself along the sidewalk. Slowing down my pace slightly, I lead the way, flick-knife by my side, fear in my heart. So far the street is clear, but that can change in a heart-beat. In the distance, I can hear them, the snarls and groans of those who are gone, the air rife with the smell of death. We edge past a cafe, _BREAKFAST AND LUNCH _emblazoned on the dark glass in white letters, the shadow of blinds just visible -

Something streaks out in front of us, the Doctor almost falling over in shock, digging his cane into the ground to steady himself. I collapse against the cafe window, hand flying to my chest, breath coming in huge rasps. It was just a dog, a damned dog - Dead hands slam against the glass, making me leap backwards, nearly having another heart attack. I can just make out a head being tilted to the side, then it's gone, and I know where it's going...

Grabbing the Doctor by the elbow, I haul him on, not daring to look back. We veer past shuttered shops, nearly tripping over red and white striped safety fences and overturned trashcans, frantically dodging the wrecked remains of crashed cars. The scrape of feet over the sunbaked ground makes me quicken my own, but the Doctor can't keep up, almost slowing to a crawl. He was right, we should have stayed off the streets...

I make a sharp right turn into an alley, crashing through the chain link fence, leaving it to swing violently on its hinges in our wake, heading towards the faded yellow ladder further down. We bypass dumpsters, scattering even more dogs as we go, and I risk a backwards glance, relieved to see them run through the legs of the Walkers, speed lending them the advantage, allowing them to escape the dead's grasping hands. Heart drumming in my chest, I drag the Doctor deeper into the alley, the brickwork of the walls blackened by pollution flashing past, almost like they're closing in on us...

Somehow we're standing in front of the ladder, and I push the Doctor up it, the cane clamped between his teeth. I grip a rung with one hand, shoving my flick-knife into the back pocket of my jeans with the other, before pulling myself upwards, only to be yanked down, rotting fingers encircling my ankle like manacles. I lash out, trying to kick myself loose, only to lose my boot in the process. I watch it fly over the heads of the Walkers, and then I'm scuttling up the ladder, bypassing air vents, terror lending me speed, only stopping when I reach the platform half way up, before crashing face down on the metal gridding, wrapping my arms around my head, the Doctor slumping against some pipes.

"That was close," I gasp. "Too close for my taste."

"It was your bloody fault."

"Hold up" -

- "Hold up what? A bank!? You nearly got us killed all over again!"

"But I didn't, did I? I got us out of there" -

- "You stupid _ape!_" he suddenly explodes, silencing me. "You ignorant anthropoid!"

"You Gallifreyan _git!_" I retort, recovering my nerve, not bothering to point out I'm no longer quite human. "You piece of Time Lord treachery!"

"If I looked up your family tree I'd find Pongidae and Hylobatidae!" the Doctor yells back, undeterred.

I can't beat that, so I glance upwards instead. The Doctor follows my gaze, eyes widening slightly at how much there is left to climb. "I'm having a Jack and the Beanstalk moment," I say grimly, sitting up.

"So are they," he says, swallowing hard, gesturing with his cane to the crowd below, trying to scale the ladder, dead hands gripping the rungs.

* * *

"Are they evolving?" I ask in disbelief as we creep through the attic.

"I don't know," the Doctor admits, nearly knocking himself out on a rafter, "some seem to retain residual memories of their former lives, whilst others are mindless beasts only thinking of the kill. It's all highly fascinating."

I scoff at this, bending down to release the catch of the trap-door. As the steps concertina downwards, I hesitate before descending, checking to see if the coast is clear, the Doctor hard on my heels, coughing on the dust.

"Keep it down back there," I hiss, pulling my flick-knife out again.

"I like your stripy sock," he says, completely disregarding my words.

"I liked my boot more."

"Don't worry, Cinderella," the Doctor says, squeezing my shoulder, "we'll get you home before midnight."

"I think you'll need the TARDIS for that one," I say darkly.

The Doctor turns away from me, but not before I see the flicker of agony in his eyes. It's hurting him to be away from the TARDIS like this. I take his hand, knotting my fingers through his, and for a moment everything is as it should be, but he gently but firmly removes his hand from mine, before limping forwards, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. I stare at him for a moment, before following, then overtaking him, weaving my way through piles of cardboard boxes, curiosity making me pause. I lift the lid off one of them, only to find piles of folders stacked up inside. Tucking the lid under my arm, I then edge onwards, attention caught by a doorway further down.

Upon reaching it, I signal for the Doctor to stop, before putting my finger to my lips. He mimes zipping his own shut, and I roll my eyes, before rapping the door with the lid, careful to keep out of sight. It's really a waste of time; if anything was there, it would have revealed itself by now, not with the amount of noise we were making. But it's better to be safe than sorry, especially since it's not just the dead we have to worry about. But nothing stirs, nothing emerges, so I dare to step inside, nearly blinded by the light pouring in through the open window.

"Look at this, Doctor," I say, going over to the window, chucking the lid aside.

He shuffles over, whipping out his glasses and perching them on the bridge of his hooked nose, eyes narrowing behind the lenses. "Humans, you never fail to surprise me," he mutters, leaning on his cane, trying to look like some learned old gentleman and failing miserably.

"I was wondering when the brainy specs would come out," I say lightly, folding my arms across my chest.

"Never mind that," the Doctor snaps, "just admire the ingenuity of the human race," he says, voice reverent as he gestures to the wide sheet of wood nailed to the window ledge, bridging the gap between buildings, connecting our window to the one across the way.

"It's just a two man hack job," I say, rolling my eyes.

"A two man hack job we're going to have to put to the test if we want out of this tomb," the Doctor says, scrambling up onto the window ledge before I can stop him. As he crawls on all fours across the sheet of wood, cane clamped once more between his teeth, I just remain rooted to the spot, pulling the tatters of my nerves together. Then taking a deep breath, I take the plunge, trying not to look down, the sheer drop nearly making my heart stop in my chest. Then I'm back on solid ground, the beige carpet suddenly striking me as very beautiful.

"Hmmm," the Doctor says, looking down at the alley below, eying the three or four Walkers staggering aimlessly about, "somebody's barricaded that bit off with a bus."

"So what?" I spit, legs still trembling. "Can we please just go?"

"Fine, we'll go," the Doctor says irritably, "and maybe if we're lucky, we'll run into Rick Grimes and have some sambuca" -

This time I'm too fast for him to stop, my hand colliding with the side of his face. He reels back, stunned, then angry. "What was that for!?" he demands, rubbing his cheek.

"Because you keep making these digs about Rick and Morgan" -

"- Because you keep thinking about them and the others," he snaps, "but at the same time you're trying not to, and it's giving me a headache - didn't I mention the headache!?"

I turn away, damning him under my breath, damning my Doctor for all that I've done.

* * *

I step over the low wall, crossing the roof at a swift pace, leaving the Doctor trailing in my wake. He limps on, face stoic, and for a moment I wonder why he's still so ill, and I'm not, before dismissing the thought. I bypass a series of large pipes interconnecting with a row of air vents, before stooping down and lifting up a hatch, only for it to reveal another ladder. Sighing heavily, hoping to hell there's nothing waiting for me in the darkness below, I climb down, stomach rumbling loudly as I go.

I leap off the last rung, landing like a cat, pulling out the flick-knife as I move, edging down a hallway, then through a doorway, only to find myself in another abandoned office suite, the walls dark and grey, computers lying scattered on the ground with smashed monitors and tangled wires. I carefully navigate my way through the destruction, nearly stepping on staplers and slipping on pens, dodging blood-splattered keyboards, overturned desks and cubicle partitions lying on their sides, bashed and battered, like they've been trampled on. I clamber over yet another filing cabinet, folders and papers littering the floor, along with phones and fax machines, creating even more obstacles to avoid. I hear the Doctor curse behind me, and I turn around, just in time to see him crash into an office chair, its wheels spinning wildly as it careers across the room.

Rolling my eyes for the umpteenth time, I make to move on, only to come to a sudden halt, spying a crumpled up sleeping bag in a far corner, the sight of it setting alarm bells off in my head. Forcing myself to focus, I head towards the only other door in the room, a fire exit of all things, before pushing down on the safety bar, the sunlight striking me like a blow. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I step onto the fire escape, looking down at the world below, only to see the same alley from before, the bus barricading its entrance. I glance around, taking in the surrounding buildings, trying to figure out our position, when the Doctor appears, barging past me.

"Hey!" I protest.

But he just ignores me, heading down into the alley, completely disregarding the danger of the Walkers staggering about below. Swearing under my breath, I go after him, taking two steps at a time, leaping the last three, nearly twisting my ankle in the process. Instantly regretting my heroics, I hobble over to where the Doctor is struggling with a heavy door, glancing nervously at the Walkers nearby, their heads beginning to turn in our direction. With one last pull, the door suddenly swings open, nearly knocking us over, then we're inside, slamming it behind us.

The Doctor slumps against the wall, his eye catching mine. To my surprise, he grins at me, his good humour tinged with darkness, face sardonic, arrogant even. "Enjoying this then?" I gasp, bent double, clutching my ankle.

"Well, there's nothing like an apocalypse to clear the cobwebs away, is there?" the Doctor says flippantly, disgusting me.

"This is _my _planet, prick," I snarl, straightening up, "and that's _my _people out there, suffering, dying. This isn't some way to pass the time until a Dalek shows up or something - it's literally life and death, Doctor."

"We need to keep moving," the Doctor says abruptly, and then he's off again, cane clattering across the tiled floor. I drag myself after him, following him through a doorway into a dark passage, flick-knife held close to my side, attention briefly caught by a red poster pinned haphazardly to the wall, boasting the legend _SUPER SALE _in white capital letters. Then we're rounding a corner, stepping into the ground floor of a department store, the gloom broken by the aquamarine light streaming in through the main entrance, a set of double doors, the blue glass being battered by several Walkers outside.

The Doctor limps over to them, tilting his head to one side as he studies one in particular, a teenage girl who looks almost alive. For a moment I'm reminded of Ainslie, and then the memory is gone, crushed down. I start rifling through the items on display, searching for stuff in my size, suddenly anxious to rid myself of my old clothes, the bloodstained fabric tying me to the past. The Doctor glances over his shoulder at me, brow furrowing.

"What are you doing?" he asks, confused.

"Shopping," I say smartly, snatching up a black crop-top.

"I think looting is more accurate."

"What are you going to do, arrest me?" I retort, picking up a pair of denim shorts before heading towards a display of Converse shoes.

"I bet you would enjoy that," the Doctor says darkly.

"More like you would," I retort, before limping towards the underwear section.

He mumbles something under his breath, but I just ignore him, taking my spoils of war in the direction of the changing rooms, following the signs with some trepidation. But the coast seems clear, so I draw the curtain shut behind me before stripping off, shedding my filthy clothes with relief. It's just when I've finished dressing that I hear it, a soft footfall, not the Doctor's, and not dead either, but alive -

Before I can react, the curtain is yanked back, revealing a tall, powerfully built man in his late forties to early fifties, with cropped grey hair, a craggy face and keen grey eyes, wearing some sort of studded cuff round his wrist. The rest of him leaves much to be desired, including his dress sense, or what passes for it anyways, a leather vest slung over an unbuttoned freakishly patterned shirt with its sleeves torn off, exposing his chest and shoulders, the beginnings of a beer belly straining over the edge of his faded, frayed jeans that are ripped at the knees. For a long moment, we just stare at each other, and then the man lowers his gun, gaze lingering on my bare legs.

"Holy shit," the man drawls, "it's a damn broad."

"What's with the 'broad', buddy?" I snap before I can stop myself. "Last time I checked, this was a changing room, not a speakeasy."

"So it is, sweetheart," he observes, appraising me. "You got good eyesight."

"Twenty-twenty vision," I retort.

"So have I," he parries, looking at my legs again, "lets me sort the fuglies from the fine..." His voice trails off suggestively, making me scoff.

"You have got to be kidding," I snort. "Are you trying to pick me up?"

"Can't blame a guy for tryin', not in these scoundrel days anyways."

"Well, I'm not interested," I spit, "not even if you were the last man alive."

"Might just be, princess."

"Piss off back to your trailer park, pal."

"Ohhh, my baby brother would just love you," the man says, smirking now, "if he stopped bein' such a stuffed shirt, that is. You've got that bad-girl thing goin' on, all attitude an' ass, mmm-mmm, an' you're English to boot - betcha there's a tigress waitin' to be unleashed from under that ice-cold exterior, eh?"

I stare at him in disbelief, unable to process that this is actually happening, the sheer suddenness of it all. And the maddest thing is, I don't sense he's a threat to me, more of an annoyance than anything else.

"So what's your name, honey?" the man asks, changing tack as he tucks his gun away in his belt. "Got a group, or you on your lonesome?"

I glare at him, wondering where the hell the Doctor is. All I need is for him to join the party, maybe doing the conga while he's at it.

"Come on now, no need to be shy with Uncle Merle," the man cajoles, "I don't bite - not unless you ask me to." Then he topples over like a tree, the Doctor hollering, "Timber!" as he hits the ground, the Doctor holding his cane raised like a sword. For a moment the world turns upside down, before righting itself again.

"You old hypocrite!" I bellow. "And there's me thinking you were a pacifist!"

"Not when it comes to you," the Doctor says darkly, lowering his cane to his side.

I shake my head at him, before limping forwards, my ankle aching still. "What do we do about him?" I ask, jerking my head at Merle, his slack face making my conscience prickle uncomfortably.

The Doctor just shrugs his shoulders.

"You're not seriously thinking of leaving him here, are you?" I say in disbelief. "Not with these things walking about" -

- "What happened to fear the dead and fight the living?" the Doctor snaps, jabbing his cane at me. "The girl who held a knife to Glenn's throat; the girl who is going to gun down her enemies" -

- "We could have asked him if he'd seen Dana or these cops or anyone even!" I snap back. "He's the only lead we've got!"

"Glenn never seen anyone, so I doubt our resident redneck would have either," the Doctor says dismissively. "He doesn't seem the type to be friendly with the local law-force."

Silence.

"Maybe this Merle is with Glenn," I then say uneasily, shoving my flick-knife into the back pocket of my denim shorts. "Glenn did say he had a group in the area."

"Stop talking as if Glenn is your friend," the Doctor says, "he doesn't like you, and I can't blame him."

"Maybe Merle is part of Glenn's group," I repeat from between gritted teeth.

"He wouldn't be, Glenn has taste," the Doctor says nastily, "but our redneck does have a group."

"Where?"

"Up on the roof."

"So what do we do then?"

"We make tracks," the Doctor says impatiently. "Allons-y!"


End file.
